


A Dork in Wolf's Clothing

by silver_etoile



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - No Werewolves, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-23
Updated: 2014-07-23
Packaged: 2018-02-10 01:05:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 36,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2005092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silver_etoile/pseuds/silver_etoile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles doesn't want to spend senior year the same way he's spent all the rest of them - invisible - so he enlists Lydia's help to change his fortune and make him popular. What he doesn't expect are all the strings that come along with it. It doesn't help that popular guys are so hot and Derek Hale is the hottest one of all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Dork in Wolf's Clothing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mattr13](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mattr13/gifts).



> Alrighty. First Teen Wolf fic. Please do not kill me (I have not watched the show - this is a favor fic for a friend, so I am very sorry if it's OOC. In my defense, I have occasionally read sterek fic? and I plan to watch the show. at some point. in the future). I was also instructed not to make Derek his traditionally grumpy self, so I hope I did okay. Enjoy! Also, I don't own any of this. Don't sue.

The end of junior year is when Stiles loses it. It’s been three years of “the sheriff’s son.” The one whose mouth gets him in trouble constantly with friends and teacher’s alike. The one who fades into the background and is ignored by boys and girls alike. The last straw is when that Ethan kid knocks into him coming out of his last final and his papers spill everywhere. Ethan doesn’t even glance back as Stiles bends down to pick up.

“Stiles.” Someone sighs above him and then auburn hair swishes into his sight line. Lydia hands over his Chemistry notes and Stiles takes it, trying to ignore the flutter in his chest. Fuck, Lydia is gorgeous, not to mention smart and way out of his league. Then again, Stiles gets the same feeling in gym class when they play shirts and skins, and Derek is always on the skins team.

Sitting on his heels, Stiles shoves his papers in his backpack. It isn’t as though he’s planning on keeping any of these notes after today, but it’d be nice if he wasn’t invisible to everyone. It isn’t as if there’s anything he can do about it. He’ll always be the kid who talks too much and stutters when he gets excited or flustered. Half the time, he thinks Scott is only his friend because they’ve known each other so long.

“You think you did alright?” she asks, and she’s asking about the final, but Stiles’ mind doesn’t go there. Instead, he gazes at the crumpled mess of papers in his hand. Next year will be his last year at Beacon Hills and he doesn’t want to leave here unremembered except as the kid who accidentally glued his hand to the table in second grade.

“What are you doing this summer?” he asks instead, a sudden surge of boldness escaping him before he can take it back.

Lydia glances at him, tucking her hair behind her ear. “I don’t know. I thought about taking a few courses at the college. They’re having a really interesting lecture series on the cultural repercussions of the internet technology.”

Stiles can’t imagine doing more school during the summer. He gets far too much of it during the regular school year, thanks. He rises with her, and for a second, no one says anything. The silence is getting awkward when Stiles blurts out, “I need your help.”

“Help?” she repeats, holding her books close to her chest.

Stiles’ heart pounds against his ribcage as though he’s about to ask her to marry him instead of what he’s going to say. “I want to be cool.”

For a second, Lydia only arches a questioning eyebrow until Stiles stumbles on in a desperate attempt to… not sound so desperate.

“I mean, I’m tired of being nobody, and you’re really smart. You know about fashion and clothes and stuff. I was hoping maybe you’d help me.”

“Help you be cool?” Lydia repeats slowly.

Stiles nods. It sounds kind of stupid when he says it out loud, but it is the only solution he can see. He doesn’t want the next year to go like this one. And, as an additional bonus, if Lydia says yes, he’ll get to spend the whole summer gazing at her hair, and her lips, and her eyes. Maybe, if he’s lucky…

“Alright,” Lydia says at last, interrupting his wandering thoughts. 

“Really?” Stiles drops his papers again in his excitement and then grimaces as he kneels to gather them again. Lydia doesn’t help this time, smiling down at him. “Thanks - I, I don’t even know what I meant but yes, thank you!”

“It’s not going to be easy,” Lydia says, a smile tugging her lips.

Stiles laughs and stuffs his papers in his bag this time. “I’ll follow every order, captain.”

“Call me Corporal,” Lydia says with a smirk as she turns and leaves Stiles in the hall.

Gazing after her, his heart skips a beat and he tells himself to stop being so idiotic. Lydia will never like him if he doesn’t stop being such a spaz.

As he stands there, a dorky smile plastered on his face, he doesn’t notice people coming out of other classes, not until someone bumps into his shoulder. Luckily, he’s not holding anything this time, and this time, the guy turns as he passes.

“Sorry,” he says, and Stiles meets Derek’s eyes, but then he’s lost in the crowd. His heart skips another beat and he shakes himself. Next year is going to be a hell of a lot better. He’s determined.

*

Lydia isn’t kidding about the Corporal part, and as Stiles sits in the library (the library. _In the summer_ ), staring at boards filled with graphs and charts, he begins to wonder if this was such a good idea. Lydia, to her credit, has even accessorised today’s outfit with camouflage, and she points out to Stiles’ spluttering protests about _the library_ that no one remotely cool will be there to see his attempts to mimic them.

Okay, Stiles has to give her that one. But outside, it’s sunny and bright, and all he wants to do is lay around his living room with Scott playing video games and talking about how hot Lydia is. He can’t help thinking it even as she stands before him, a long pointer in her hands, much like an army general.

“Our main objective this summer,” Lydia says, making a sharp turn as she paces in front of the table. “Is to make you, Stiles Stilinski, popular. It’s not going to be easy, and it’s not always going to be fun. However, I’ve done a bit of research.” She gestures to the three poster boards behind her, stuffed with so much type that Stiles can barely read them. “And I think we need to focus on the three As.”

“The three what?” Stiles asks, dumbfounded. He’d figured it would just be a makeover, just like in the movies, where one minute, the heroine is an ugly duckling, but with a new outfit and a haircut, she becomes beautiful, and by default, popular. Isn’t that how it’s supposed to go?

“The three As,” Lydia goes on. “Appearance, Activities, and Attitude. It’s an on-going process, and if you decide to do this, you have to commit one hundred percent. Are you prepared to do that?”

What the fuck has he gotten himself into? Stiles thinks as he stares at Lydia. On the other hand, his brain pipes up, he gets to spend the whole summer with Lydia. Lydia, whose dark lipstick makes Stiles think of hickeys and her mouth sliding down his body… Oh fuck. He shifts in his seat, glad for the table that hides his growing hard-on.

Lydia arches an eyebrow when he doesn’t respond, his cheeks flushing pink at his embarrassing predicament. It happens all the time, and he can hardly control it. His dick perks up at the sight of anything remotely hot, be it male or female. Sometimes, he’s not looking at anything, but an errant thought about the lacrosse team gets him unbearably hard.

“Um, yes, I, yes,” he splutters finally, willing down his erection. _Think of something gross. Anything. Scott in a speedo. Mrs. Walkowski naked._ He shudders, but his dick goes down slightly and he can think clearly again. This can’t happen all summer or it’s going to be unbearable.

“Good.” Lydia slaps down her pointer stick on the table, making him jump. Something about the gleam in her eye makes Stiles nervous as she leans towards him. “Welcome to your summer, Stiles.”

*

**Appearance**

Stiles is awakened by a shrill whistle that shrieks an ungodly noise in his ear. His whole body jerks and he falls off his bed with a hard thunk. Rubbing his tailbone, he cracks open bleary eyes to find Lydia standing in his room. Immediately, he squeaks and scrambles up, grabbing the sheets to cover his boxers.

“What are you-how did you get in here?” he demands, only half-awake, but having a girl in his room is something he never expected to happen.

“Your dad let me in,” she says, tossing a pair of running shoes at Stiles. He’s not fast enough to catch them without dropping the sheet protecting his morning wood from her eyes. Instead, he flinches as they hit his chest and fall to the messy floor.

“But my dad leaves for work at six.” Stiles looks around for the clock, and his eyes widen as he sees the time. “It’s fucking six-oh-five!”

“The best time for a run is in the morning,” Lydia says simply, and it’s only now that Stiles notices she’s dressed in running shoes and shorts.

“Running?” he repeats dimly. Stiles doesn’t run, not unless some wild animal is chasing him through the woods. 

“We’ve got to get you in shape.” Lydia doesn’t turn to let him get dressed, and all Stiles can think is that he’s alone in his room with a girl. He’s never been alone in his room with a girl before. What does he do? What’s the protocol for this? “My research indicated that half of popularity comes from how you look. Luckily, you’ve been blessed with nice facial features, although we’ll have to work on the acne. Your face is very perpendicular.”

Stiles feels the pimple on his chin and frowns. He wishes she hadn’t pointed it out. It wasn’t like he could control it. He was a teenager for fuck’s sake.

“The face isn’t everything, though.” Lydia gestures at him, and he feels suddenly self-conscious without a shirt on. “You must have a nice body, and that means exercise. You’ve agreed to let me handle this, haven’t you, Stiles?”

“Oh, uh, yeah,” Stiles agrees, but he’d agree to anything right now if it meant being here with Lydia, in his room, his very messy room that he should have cleaned, but he didn’t know she was going to barge in at fuck-all hours of the morning.

“So get dressed and meet me downstairs. We’ll start out small - only a mile or two today, but we’ll be running three days a week from now on. The other three, we’ll be hitting the gym. Got to work on that six pack.” She pauses and adds as an afterthought, “You can have Sundays off.”

How generous, Stiles thinks, but she’s already left the room and he is left to find clothes he can run in.

*

Stiles is dying, _dying_ when he collapses on his front porch. There’s not enough oxygen in the world, certainly not enough in his lungs but he takes deep gulps anyway. It doesn’t seem to be helping. 

“Get some water but don’t sit down,” Lydia tells him as he clings to the porch railing to keep himself upright. Lydia, damn her, doesn’t look winded at all aside from a slight tinge of pink to her cheeks. Stiles is sure his whole face is red. The last half-mile had been like running through mud, his legs refusing to work, pains seizing his chest when he tried to breathe.

“Where are you going?” he manages to gasp when she trots down the walkway.

“I have research to do,” she says. “But don’t worry; I’ll be back.”

Stiles falls to the porch, spread out on his back and closing his eyes as he tries to remember how to breathe. It used to be easy, right? Before he went on the death march with Lydia.

“Hey, man.” Someone nudges his leg with their foot, but Stiles can’t even bring himself to open his eyes. “What the fuck happened to you?”

It’s Scott. Stiles hears his footsteps on the porch, the thud of his body against the post. 

“Running,” he says, barely able to get one word out at a time. 

“Running?” Scott repeats, and Stiles can hear the way he raises his eyebrows when he says it. “What were you running from? A murderer?”

“Lydia.”

“You were running from Lydia? I’d have thought you’d want to run towards her.”

Stiles forces his eyes open to find Scott gazing down at him, arms crossed over his chest. Fuck him for not being as miserable as Stiles right now. It hurts to push himself up, but Stiles does it. He can almost breathe again.

“Running with Lydia,” he says finally. 

“Why?”

For a second, Stiles wonders if he should tell Scott about his ridiculous request for Lydia to help him become popular. It’ll just make him look like more of a loser than he already is. Then again, if Scott doesn’t know it already, he might as well.

“We’re training,” he says, hauling himself up. His legs feel like jelly, but he manages to get inside. Scott follows him to the kitchen where Stiles grabs a glass and fills it with water. After he downs the entire glass, he turns to Scott. “I asked her to help me be cool.”

To no one’s surprise, Scott bursts out laughing. Frowning, Stiles refills the glass. Of course Scott would think it’s stupid, but people don’t ignore Scott. People don’t pass him by unseen in the halls or talk about him as “that kid who gets thrown in the back of the sheriff’s car when he does something stupid.” 

“Why the fuck would you do that?” Scott asks once he’s calmed down enough to speak.

“I’m tired of being invisible.” Stiles doesn’t drink the water and stares at instead. It’s clear, just like him. See-through.

“You’re not invisible,” Scott says like it’s obvious, but Stiles shakes his head.

“You’re pretty much my only friend,” he points out. “In class, Mr. Harris still calls me Steven. The only reason people know I exist is because my dad is the fucking sheriff.”

“What do you need other friends for?” Scott asks, sounding insulted.

“I just don’t want to be the friendless spaz loser anymore.” He shakes his head and pours out the glass in the sink. “There’s only one year left and I don’t want to spend it like all the other years.”

“What was wrong with all the other years?”

“Nobody even knows my name, Scott. I’m just the idiot who talks too much and gets into trouble all the time.”

“Who the fuck cares what other people think?” Scott demands. “You’re Stiles. You don’t need to be anyone else.”

Stiles doesn’t understand why Scott is mad. He just wants one year, one year where he doesn’t get knocked into in the halls, where teachers remember his name, where Lydia doesn’t look at him like he’s a sad little puppy that follows her around hoping for treats. 

“I just want senior year to be great,” Stiles says despite Scott’s scowl. 

“Well, I guess if you’re popular, it will be.”

“Scott,” Stiles says, but Scott shakes his head and heads for the front door. Stiles follows him doggedly. “You don’t understand. People like you. They know who you are. I’m just your sidekick.”

“You’re not a fucking sidekick,” Scott snaps as he reaches the door. “I think this whole thing is stupid.”

Stiles flinches as though Scott’s words are rocks flung at him. “Well, I’m doing it.”

“Fine,” Scott says, wrenching open the front door. “Just don’t expect my help.”

“Fine,” Stiles snaps, although he doesn’t feel angry as Scott leaves, just disappointed. Closing the door slowly, he turns to the empty house. At least Lydia is helping him. There’s something.

*

If Stiles thought running and going to the gym would be the end of it, he’s sadly mistaken.

“Ow, Lydia, is this really necessary?” he asks as his legs tremble under the weight of the pile of clothes in his hands.

“Physicality is only one aspect of appearance,” Lydia says from somewhere beyond the pile. Stiles can’t actually see around it, and he bumps into a mannequin as he tries to follow her voice. “Clothes are very important. They emphasize and de-emphasize the aspects you want. Your faded tee-shirts and ripped jeans are no way to get noticed.”

They’ve been at it for hours, and Stiles is beginning to think he prefers running to shopping, and that’s saying something. He runs into a table and winces at the sharp pain of the corner digging into his leg. 

“This isn’t, like, some latent desire to dress up a life-size Ken doll, is it?” he asks, but Lydia appears at his side, shooting him a look that’s so unimpressed, he’s surprised she can even manage. She flings another pair of jeans on top of the pile and Stiles’ knees shake. Her look goes straight to his crotch, though, and he bites his lip to try to control his hormones.

“I’m doing this as a favor to you,” she reminds him. “I hold the key to your future in my style expertise.”

That’s true given that Stiles knows fuck-all about clothes or fashion. Besides, he likes the idea of dressing up and having Lydia look at him. Maybe she’ll finally see his potential as a boyfriend, or at least a fuck. What he wouldn’t give to have sex with someone. His only experiences so far have been fumbling kisses at school dances and watching too much porn on the internet when no one’s home.

“Okay, okay,” he says, “but can we take a break? I think I’m getting dehydrated.”

He swears he sees Lydia smile, and her hand on his arm, guiding him through the store, gives him goosebumps.

“Try these on first. Then we can get something to drink.”

She shoves him into a dressing room, and he dumps the clothes on the bench, glad to have use of his arms again, though they feel wiggly and useless. Lifting weights hasn’t really done much for his muscles yet, but Lydia assures him that she’s done extensive research on the best way to improve his body. For Stiles, it just means being scared out of bed at six am and doing crunches and push-ups until he feels like he’s going to collapse.

Gazing at the pile, Stiles isn’t even sure where to start. Mostly, he wears the same thing every day - jeans and a tee-shirt or flannel shirt. He doesn’t usually think about it, as long as it doesn’t smell dirty.

“Come on, Stiles,” Lydia calls impatiently through the door.

Stiles grabs the first shirt he sees - a blue button-up shirt with sleeves that roll halfway up his forearm. He pulls on a pair of black jeans that feel entirely too tight, but maybe he’s just not used to new jeans. He can’t even remember the last time he went shopping for clothes.

As he steps out, heart hammering nervously when Lydia looks him up and down, he hopes he doesn’t look like a complete idiot.

“Not bad,” Lydia says at length. “Once you get your arms built up a bit more, it’ll look pretty nice.”

It’s the first compliment she’s ever given him, and Stiles flushes as she circles him. “And look at that, you _do_ have an ass.”

Stiles’ eyes go wide and a million thoughts fly through his mind - thoughts of Lydia’s hands on his ass, Lydia looking at his ass, Lydia sliding down his body… He snaps himself back to reality as she rounds in front of him and nods approvingly. 

“Try something else.”

He stumbles back in the dressing room, squeezing his cock reassuringly. When he gets home, he promises to jerk off until he can’t anymore, but for now, he’s got to keep it under control. Just keep it under control.

*

**Activities**

“What do you do in your free time?” Lydia asks as she sits on Stiles’ feet and he struggles to do his crunches without staring at her chest every time he comes up. But it’s right there. He lays down on his back and stares at the gym ceiling. He didn’t even know they had a gym in Beacon Hills, one with workout equipment and a pool and everything else. He can’t think when he’s faced with the V of her tee-shirt, skin disappearing underneath and the swell of her breasts.

“What?” he asks dumbly, blinking away those thoughts. His attention is caught by a guy behind him lifting weights. The guy’s skin glistens with sweat and he’s got muscles that make Stiles’ cock stir interestedly. Fuck. If he just get himself under control, but between hot guys and Lydia, he doesn’t even know what’s wrong with him.

Stiles has long reached the conclusion that he’s attracted to anyone who is hot. It doesn’t matter if it’s a guy or a girl. It makes everything extra complicated.

“Free-time,” Lydia repeats slowly as though he’s a little slow. “When you’re not in school.”

Stiles shrugs and does another crunch, averting his eyes from her chest. “I don’t know. Hang out with Scott, play video games, fuck around in the woods.”

Lydia eases off his feet and Stiles lets out a relieved breath. The muscles in his stomach scream in protest as he sits up. Working out is much harder than it looks in the movies. 

“That won’t do,” she says, shaking her head and pausing thoughtfully. “Do you play any sports?”

Stiles snorts loudly, earning him some raised eyebrows from other people in the gym. “Does sleeping count?”

“From now on, you don’t play video games.”

“I don’t?” Stiles rubs his abs, or where his abs will be, Lydia assures him.

“From now on, you play lacrosse.”

Stiles glances up at her, something akin to horror swishing around his stomach. “What?”

Lydia merely smiles and rises from the floor. “Come with me.”

*

Where Lydia got a lacrosse stick, Stiles has no idea since the school is closed, and as far as he knows, the team doesn’t practice during summer. They stand on the field, no one around that Stiles can see, and he’s already fucking exhausted from working out, but something tells him Lydia isn’t going to let him go home and spend the rest of the day watching TV in his underwear.

“This is a crosse stick,” she says, handing one to him. “And this is the ball.”

Stiles isn’t that dumb, but he takes them anyway. “I have watched lacrosse before,” he tries to point out, but she ignores him.

“First thing, you need to hold it the right way.” She drops her own stick and moves over to Stiles. “You’re right-handed?”

“Uhh,” Stiles says, forgetting how to form words when Lydia takes his hand and repositions it on the stick. She’s close enough that he can smell her perfume, or maybe it’s her shampoo. He can’t tell, but it smells great and he loses track of what’s she’s saying until she knocks his stick with hers.

“Pay attention. Today, we’re just going to work on passing the ball. And I’ll teach you to cradle which I expect you to practice for next time.”

“Homework?” Stiles blurts out. He barely gets school homework done. It’s hard enough with ADD fucking up his attention constantly, but homework in the summertime? He so didn’t think this through, and even if it means staring at Lydia half the time, he’s not sure if it’s worth it. Maybe he can just call it off and go back to being nobody. No one would even notice.

Lydia shoots him a look. “Popularity doesn’t happen overnight.”

Stiles knows that, but he still feels stupid when Lydia tosses him the ball and he fumbles to catch it with his stick. It falls to the ground, and he isn’t quick enough to scoop it up before Lydia has it again.

“Got to be faster than that,” she says and throws it at him again. Stiles flinches as it comes his way and she sighs.

*

Stiles feels unnecessarily surreptitious as he checks out the living room window before plopping down on the floor in front of the couch and setting the bowl of popcorn between himself and Scott.

“What are you doing?” Scott asks as Stiles glances over his shoulder again, but he can’t help the feeling that Lydia will _know_ he’s playing video games.

“Nothing,” he says, flipping on the console. 

Scott doesn’t reply, grabbing his controller. They haven’t talked about the weird fight they had a few weeks ago, and Stiles doesn’t want to bring it up if Scott doesn’t. 

For a second, they watch the screen as the game loads. The only sounds aside from the TV are birds twittering outside. It takes a moment, but Scott glanced at him finally.

“Looks like working out is actually paying off.”

Stiles looks up from his controller and then at his arm. There is a tiny bit of definition there, more than before anyway. That morning, he could have sworn he saw an actual ab on his stomach.

“Yeah, Lydia’s a slave driver.”

Scott makes a vague noise. “A hot slave driver.”

“Yeah.” Stiles grins, and for a moment, the weird awkwardness vanishes. He doesn’t know why Scott is mad at him, but he doesn’t want him to be. “The other day she was wearing this low-cut shirt while I was doing sit-ups. Fuck, dude, it was so hard to concentrate.”

Scott actually laughs and hits Stiles’ shoulder. “You’re so desperate for it.”

“Shut up. Maybe this year, I’ll actually get laid now that people will notice me.”

At that, Scott falls silent again and picks his player instead of commenting. Miffed, Stiles doesn’t push it for once. Pushing usually only gets him in trouble.

“Pick your player, dude,” Scott says, and Stiles grabs his controller. It’ll all be worth it in the end.

*

“Now that you’ve got the basics down,” Lydia says, tossing Stiles his stick and shielding her eyes from the morning sun creeping over the trees. “I thought we’d have a little match.”

“With just two people?”

“I invited someone else.”

Unease drops into Stiles’ stomach at the thought. He had hoped they could kind of keep this low-key. He doesn’t need the whole world knowing that he’s so pathetic that he actually asks for help being cool. 

Lydia turns towards the parking lot, and Stiles squints at the person crossing the grass towards him. Once they’re close enough to be recognized, Stiles grabs Lydia’s arm, panicked.

“Jackson?” he hisses. “You asked Jackson to play with us?”

As far as Stiles has seen, Jackson is not the nicest guy in school. He’s a self-serving dick who doesn’t even bother bullying Stiles, he’s so far down on the totem pole. The last thing he needs is for Jackson to tell everyone what they’re doing.

“Relax.” Lydia shakes off his hand with a serious look. “He’s on the team and he can give you great pointers. I just told him we wanted to have a game. I didn’t tell him anything about your training.”

It doesn’t reassure Stiles, but he sucks in his panic as Jackson reaches them. Jackson, to his credit, is a thing of wet dreams, if Stiles was into self-centered assholes. 

“Hey, Lyds,” Jackson greets here, easy and familiar, and everything Stiles wishes he could be, but he’s always spastic and stupid instead. Jackson’s eyes graze over Stiles, a flicker of something close to disgust. “Who’s this?”

Lydia gives Jackson the same look she gives Stiles when he’s being stupid. “This is Stiles.”

“What kind of a name is Stiles?”

Stiles crosses his arms and scowls. “What kind of a name is Jackson? Was your mom hoping you’d be like Jackson Pollock because that failed spectacularly.” Stiles can’t help the words coming out of his mouth, but it’s certainly not helping his popularity because Jackson somehow looms bigger over him.

“Hey,” Lydia interrupts sharply. “We’re not here to fight. We’re here to play lacrosse.”

Jackson glances at her. “I don’t want you to play lacrosse.”

“Afraid to get beat by a girl?” she teases and shoves a stick into his hands. “It’s just a friendly game. But all game rules apply.”

Stiles hopes she says that so he doesn’t get brutally body-checked by Jackson, who looks like he’d pull a few illegal moves if they let him. He doesn’t miss the look Jackson shoots him as they take their places on the field. This is going to hurt.

*

**Attitude**

Stiles doesn’t think he’s cut out for lacrosse, but Lydia insists he’s going to try out for the team come fall. Stiles doesn’t think all his bruises from Jackson will have healed by then. He had barely made it home, limping from where Jackson’s stick “accidentally” slammed into the back of his knee. Accident his ass.

Between learning lacrosse, the early morning runs, and hitting the gym, Stiles starts to see a change. It’s small at first, but he notices every morning that his stomach gets a little tighter, muscles a tiny bit more defined. Lydia takes to giving him pamphlets (that he bets she made herself) on personal grooming and hygiene. She also forces him into the salon one day after a particularly brutal workout, not to mention a shopping trip for shoes that made Stiles hate shoes, for a haircut.

He doesn’t need a haircut, he insists, but she insists as well, and that’s how he ends up with a far too expensive haircut that doesn’t change much as far as he’s concerned.

“How do you feel?” Lydia asks as they get ice cream from the shop on the corner and wander down Main Street. 

“Everything hurts,” he says, rubbing the bruise where she’d body-checked him the day before on the field. He hadn’t even thought a girl could hurt that much.

“I mean, do you feel more confident?”

Stiles shrugs vaguely as his ice cream drips down his hand. He tries to lick it off but ends up getting it all over his face instead. Lydia hands him a napkin with a resolved look on her face.

“I don’t know.” He can talk to Lydia without slobbering all over her. That’s a step up, he thinks. He can be around her with dropping everything he’s holding, without tripping over his feet. He gets the feeling that’s not what she’s referring to.

“Do you like the way you look?”

Stiles glances down. He’s not wearing the nice clothes Lydia made him buy because he doesn’t want to ruin them before school starts. “I guess.” He doesn’t look nearly as scrawny in the mirror these days. 

“Good,” she says, “because the next phase is Attitude.”

“Right,” Stiles mutters as he trips over a dip in the sidewalk and barely catches himself. He’s never been the most graceful person alive, as evidenced from the many bruises covering his body from lacrosse practice. He also tends to run off at the mouth whenever he gets nervous.

“Being cool is not just about what you look like or what you do. It’s also how you act,” Lydia points out as they continue down the leafy street. He’s not sure where they’re going, but it looks suspiciously like the library again. It should be against the law to be in the library during summer. Maybe he’ll talk to his dad about that. “It’s who you know and how you interact with them.”

They are going to the library, and Stiles sighs as they climb the steps. His ice cream is long gone, mostly dripping down his fingers instead, and he sucks between his fingers while Lydia taps her finger against her hips.

“Just like that.”

“What?”

She shoves another napkin into his hand. “Cool people don’t lick ice cream off their hands.”

“But—”

“No, Stiles.”

Okay, so he knows she’s right, but that doesn’t mean he has to like it. This isn’t etiquette school. They’re in high school for fuck’s sake. He takes the napkin then and tries to clean off the stickiness. Lydia pushes open the door to the library, and he follows her reluctantly.

She picks the same table as before, right in front of a window where Stiles can stare out at the sun and green grass of the front lawn. It’s distracting, but what’s more distracting is when she takes the chair across from him and he can almost see directly down her shirt.

It’s been a month and a half since they started “training” and even though they’ve spent almost every day together, Stiles is no closer to actually asking her out or doing anything other than asking ‘how high’ when she tells him to jump. He has even adjusted to the six am wake-up calls and is usually not caught unawares anymore. She has taken to demanding she measure him every day in the gym. The first time she touched his stomach, he’d jumped about half a foot and he’d had to make an excuse so he could jerk off before they continued with the workout.

A part of Stiles isn’t sure he wants to actually go out with her, since he’s pretty sure it would be terrifying; he wouldn’t know what to say or do, where to put his hands if they kissed, if he could even date someone. It seems like so much work. A hookup would be so much easier, but he doesn’t think Lydia is that kind of girl.

Lydia pulls a tablet out of her bag and sets it on the table between them. “Aside from learning to reel yourself in, it’s important that you understand the high school hierarchy.”

“I know the hierarchy,” Stiles says. “I’m on the bottom of it.”

“Not if you do your research.” Lydia pulls up a file and a picture comes up on screen.

“Jackson?” he asks skeptically. What does Jackson have to do with him.

“There are certain people in the popular crowd that you have to know and know how to interact with them. If you stutter your way through a conversation or, say, insult them—” she gives him a knowing look and he avoids her eyes. “—they won’t be so eager to let you in.”

Stiles sighs and pulls the tablet closer. “Okay. Fine.”

Lydia leans forward. “Jackson Whittemore. He was adopted by the Whittemore family when he was a baby.”

“Wait, Jackson’s adopted?” Stiles interrupts, entirely too loudly. He never knew that.

Lydia silences him with a look. “If you bring it up, I would severely recommend wearing a helmet when you do or else you may get beaten to a pulp.”

“Oh, right,” Stiles says, much quieter. Still, it’s an interesting fact. 

“He plays mid-fielder on the lacrosse team, owns a Porsche, but don’t ever ask to borrow it. He won’t let you. If you show him you won’t back down, he’ll ease up, so be strong with him, but don’t be argumentative.”

Stiles nods again. He nods as though he’s going to do what she says, but everyone (and by everyone, he means Scott) knows he can’t keep his mouth shut.

“Next.” She swipes the screen and a picture of Ethan comes up, or at least, Stiles thinks it’s Ethan. It’s hard to tell the twins apart. “Ethan. He’s a nicer guy when Aiden’s not around. He’s gay, and he dated Danny for a while, but they’re on-again-off-again. Off, the last time I heard.”

Stiles gazes at his picture, because as much as he knows Ethan’s a jerk, he can’t help finding him attractive with his strong jaw and deep brown eyes. The picture’s gone before he can stare too much, replaced with the smooth, clean lines of Derek Hale.

Something deep in Stiles’ stomach flutters and he swallows slowly as his eyes wander over Derek’s photo.

“Derek Hale,” Lydia goes on, though her eyes flick from the picture to Stiles. “Lives with his uncle and older sister. Plays on the lacrosse team - attacker. He’s generally a nice guy, funny, sweet. He’s probably the easiest one to get along with, and he’s the most likely not to ignore you.”

She goes to the next picture, but Stiles is still on Derek, getting lost in dark eyes and a crooked smile.

*

“What are you doing?” Scott asks when Stiles gets up to get a napkin for the taco grease dripping down his arm.

“What?” he asks, coming back to the booth and wiping it up. 

Scott stares pointedly at the napkin in his hand and shakes his head. “I don’t know why I bother asking. It’s all part your stupid being cool thing, isn’t it?”

“It’s also good manners,” Stiles tries to argue, but he knows Scott won’t believe him. Scott knows him better than anyone, always has.

“People aren’t going to like you because you use napkins.”

“Why are you so set against this?” Stiles asks. “This whole summer, you’ve just been in a pissy mood.”

“I just think it’s idiotic,” Scott says, and Stiles is glad the restaurant is practically empty. It’s not so much a restaurant as a corner shack that sells the most delicious tacos in the world. “Why do you need to be cool? What is it going to change?”

“I just wanna be somebody,” Stiles says, setting down his taco and sighing at the table. “I don’t want to be Sheriff Stilinski’s kid. I want to go out with people and not be a spaz when someone actually talks to me. Maybe I’ll actually get a date to the Homecoming dance this year instead of staying home with you watching Zombie movies and eating pizza.”

“What the fuck is wrong with that?”

“Nothing. It’s just, I want to do something different this year. Remember all those dances you had a date to and I stayed home alone? I don’t want to do that again.”

“I said you could come with us—”

“And be the third wheel, great,” Stiles interrupts. He picks at his taco shell, breaking it into tiny pieces. “I’m sick of being no one. It’s my last year. I just want it to be good.”

“Exactly. It’s our senior year, so who gives a fuck what anyone thinks?” Scott asks. “In nine months, you’ll never have to see these people again. We’ll go to college somewhere and you’ll make new friends.”

Stiles shoots him a look. “Because I’ve been able to make so many friends in the seventeen years I’ve lived here so far. Four years will be a piece of cake.”

Scott merely shakes his head as though Stiles is being difficult on purpose. He’s not. He just doesn’t want to be the same old Stiles anymore and he doesn’t understand why Scott doesn’t get it.

Instead of arguing some more, he pulls apart the napkin and lets a shower of white fall on the table.

*

“When someone mentions a party,” Lydia says, reading off the flashcard in her hand. “But not directly to you, what does it mean?”

Stiles’ head hurts. He had no idea it was so complicated, being popular. Grimacing, he tries to think.

“It means… I’m not invited?” That’s what it usually means.

“When you’re popular, if you’re anywhere in the vicinity when it’s announced, it means you better be there and you better have a drink.” She flips the flashcard over. “Did you even study?”

“Yes,” Stiles says, though it doesn’t come out very convincing, and he bites his lip. He’d meant to study, but it was summer, and the Ramones had been on VH1’s Behind the Music last night.

“Stop biting your lip,” she says, and Stiles hadn’t even realized he was doing it. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, trying to school his features, but he’s never had to break his own habits before. It’s harder than it looks.

Lydia gazes at him for a moment and then grabs another card. “Football games, what do you do?”

Stiles hesitates. “Talk about how hot the cheerleaders are?”

She doesn’t seem impressed. “Stiles, the whole point of this is to help you become popular, which I can’t do if you’re not going to be serious about it.”

“I am serious,” he insists. “I’m just, I’ve got a mild form of ADHD so I kind of have a hard time focusing.” He isn’t on pills or anything because his dad doesn’t think that’s the way to deal with those kinds of things, and he keeps hoping he’ll grow out of it, but he hasn’t yet.

“Okay,” she says quietly. “Just, try to concentrate.”

Stiles nods and listens to the next question, pouring all his energy into focusing on the answer.

“It’s your first lacrosse game and you’re really nervous. Derek asks if you’re okay. What do you say?”

Stiles stops and thinks this time. Normally, he would word vomit all over Derek about how not nervous he was, how ‘so ready’ he was to beat the other guys. He would talk until Derek gave him a look that said he severely regretted ever asking him the question in the first place. But this is not what cool people do. Cool people are cool.

“I’d say I’m fine,” he says finally.

“And?” Lydia prompts. 

“And that’s all.”

She smiles and taps the card on the table. “By George, I think he’s got it.”

*

**Attunement**

Stiles feels weird. More than weird. He feels nervous, like he might throw up at any moment. He’s already texted Lydia about ten times that morning. He can’t remember being this nervous for the first day of school since first grade. And maybe freshman year when he’d still hoped high school would be different.

He’s kind of surprised when he runs into Scott outside his house. He’s messing with the sleeves of his shirt, too starchy and new. He should have worn them in over the summer, but it’s too late for that. His jeans are too tight and uncomfortable, but Lydia has assured him they look good, that all the girls will notice him. It isn’t that he wants girls to notice him aside from her, but after three whole months spent together, he’s starting to wonder if he actually wants to date her or if he just thinks she’s pretty and smart. Is there a line somewhere that he’s crossed into being actual friends with her?

Scott leans against Stiles’ jeep like he always does, backpack slung over his shoulder. He pauses as he catches sight of Stiles’ new clothes, but he pointedly doesn’t comment.

“What are you doing here?” Stiles asks, tossing his bag in the backseat.

“You’re giving me a ride,” Scott says like the question is ridiculous.

“Oh.” Stiles doesn’t fight him on it and climbs in the driver’s seat. Scott shuts his door and clicks on the seatbelt. They’re both quiet as the engine rumbles to life and he pulls into the street.

“So you’re really going through with it?” Scott says and Stiles’ phone pings with a text from Lydia. 

“Yeah,” Stiles says. He itches to pull out his phone but his dad will murder him if he texts and drives. It isn’t too far to school anyway. “Do I look okay?”

“You look like an Abercrombie ad,” Scott mutters, and Stiles isn’t sure that’s a good thing or not. He thinks Abercrombie guys are hot, so he decides to take it as a compliment even if Scott doesn’t mean it that way.

Pulling into the parking lot, Stiles’ nerves double at the sight of everyone. He hasn’t really seen anyone aside from Scott, Lydia, and his dad all summer, and he’s probably forgotten how to interact with normal people despite Lydia’s flashcards.

They park in the usual spot and Stiles checks his phone.

 _Meet me on the steps_ is Lydia’s message. He shoves it in his pocket and presses his hands against his thighs as they walk. He knows Scott notices because he throws him concerned glances as they approach the school. 

Lydia waits at the bottom of the steps, looking put-together and at ease, not paying attention to people who pass her. Stiles clenches his fist together to relieve the fidgeting nerves and tries not to look too stupid as he walks up to her. She’s his way in, after all.

“Stiles, you look nice,” she says appreciatively, and normally, Stiles would blush at her noticing, but he’s too nervous right now. “Hello, Scott.”

“Lydia,” Scott replies, but it’s far less polite than hers. He goes in without staying to talk and Stiles frowns after him. He doesn’t have be such a dick about everything.

Luckily, Lydia ignores Scott and takes Stiles’ arm. “Are you ready?”

“No,” he answer without thinking. “I spent all morning thinking I was stupid for even suggesting this. I mean, you can’t just _make_ people popular, especially not losers like me. And I wasted your whole summer, and I didn’t even ever ask you out even though I wanted to and now it’s too late because summer is over and holy shit, what did I just tell you?”

Stiles can’t even stop himself talking, and he says it before he realizes.

“You got over your concupiscence,” Lydia says, though, as if he hasn’t just revealed a secret he swore only Scott would ever know.

“My what?” he asks, shaken.

“Lust,” she replies, guiding him inside the halls. “It’s been all summer and you’ve realized, quite appropriately, I might add, that you don’t want to date me.”

“I have?”

“You’ve stopped staring at my chest.”

“Oh.” Stiles’ face goes red in embarrassment. Of course she’d noticed. She is the smartest girl in school. 

“Plus now that you’ll be popular, you’ll have a much wider variety of people to date.”

“Well, I…” Stiles doesn’t know what to say. He feels like he should apologize or something, but Lydia doesn’t give him the chance. 

“Ethan,” she greets the guy at his locker. “Have a good summer?”

“It was alright,” he says, but then he notices Stiles. His eyes wander down him for a minute and then he nods at him. “You new?”

“I’ve lived in Beacon Hills my whole life.”

“This is Stiles,” Lydia says.

Ethan seems to ignore what he said and nods again. “You going to Jackson’s party on Friday?”

“Uh…” Stiles isn’t sure what’s going on, but Lydia’s elbow digging into his side reminds him of the flashcards. “Y-yeah, of course.”

“Cool. I’ll see you there.”

Ethan closes his locker and leaves. Stiles stands in shock at what just happened. He hadn’t even had to say anything. Lydia grins at him.

“See? Easy as pie.”

“Are you sure he knows who I am?”

“If he didn’t, he does now. That’s what you wanted, right?”

“Right,” he agrees. 

“So,” she says again. “Are you ready?”

Stiles stops this time and nods. “Yes.”

*

The whole day is strange. People Stiles has never talked to come up to him. His teachers smile at him more. It can’t be just the clothes, although the shirt is tighter now than when he bought it. He actually has muscles; those workouts actually paid off. He doesn’t look like a skinny little stick in the mirror now. 

Despite the attention, Stiles feels even more nervous than he did before. Most of the time, he gets away with doing stupid things because no one notices him, but now, people want to talk to him. Girls giggle at his stupid jokes and guys actually acknowledge him in the hall when he passes.

The strangest thing, perhaps, is that Scott isn’t there. He’s in his Physics class, but something’s different. Something has changed.

He catches Scott at lunch, tugging on his sleeve as he enters the cafeteria.

“Hey,” he says, and Scott turns.

“What?”

“Where’ve you been all day?”

“In class,” Scott replies obviously. 

“Yeah, but—” Stiles shuffles out of the way as a mob of sophomores push their way through the doors. “I feel like I haven’t talked to you at all today.”

Scott frowns and he opens his mouth to reply, but Ethan appears.

“Hey, Stiles, come sit with us,” he says, nodding at a table across the room where a bunch of lacrosse players sit. He passes by without acknowledging Scott.

“Uh,” Stiles says, his mouth hanging open slightly, glancing after Ethan.

“Go on,” Scott says. “Your new friends are waiting.”

“Scott!” Stiles calls after him, but Scott has already left. Well, screw him, Stiles thinks. If Scott can’t be supportive, he doesn’t need to dwell on it.

Resolute, he turns and heads to Ethan’s table. At least these people want to talk to him. When he gets there, though, panic bubbles up inside him as he sees so many popular people. All of Lydia’s flashcards vanish and his mind is completely blank as he steps up.

Holy fuck balls, what had he been thinking? He can’t do this. He can’t even get through a movie without talking. How is he supposed to impress this many people and fool them into thinking he's cool? God, he's the world’s biggest dork. A dork in wolf’s clothing. Or something that makes more sense.

“Stiles, sit,” Ethan says, shoving his brother over a seat. Aiden looks entirely unimpressed.

Stiles does, only because he’s afraid of what will happen if he doesn’t. Maybe he can make it through without saying anything stupid. He catches Jackson’s dark gaze on him from across the table. He remembers what Lydia said about standing up to Jackson, but his glare makes Stiles’ chest seize up and he prays instead that Jackson doesn’t speak to him.

“This is Stiles,” Ethan says, introducing him to everyone at the table, sort of.

Stiles glances around, trying to act comfortable, as though he does this sort of thing all the time - throws himself into groups of strangers and doesn’t hyperventilate or make a comment about the latest murder his dad told him about. His gaze lands on Derek, who’s watching him. He bites his lip and swallows down the lump rising in his throat.

“Have you always gone here?” Derek asks after a moment.

Stiles smiles awkwardly. “Yep. All twelve years of my educational career.”

Ethan grins and a warm hand lands on Stiles’ shoulder. “You play any sports? You look like you could carry your weight.”

Stiles almost laughs at the irony considering two months ago, he could barely carry his own weight on a one-mile run. He keeps it to himself, though. No need to blow his cover on the first day.

“Uh, I’ve been thinking about going out for lacrosse.”

“Perfect.” Ethan’s hand squeezes his shoulder, and Stiles tries to keep a grip on his sanity and on the blood rushing to his cock.

_Stop it. Stop. Don’t be a horny teenager._

His hand curls around the edge of the bench as he takes deep breaths and wills his cock back down. No one seems to notice, already talking about practice and Jackson’s party. Maybe he can do this, he thinks as he listens and resolutely keeps his mouth shut instead of chiming in like he normally would. Maybe he can totally pull this off.

*

“So how’s the first week been?” Lydia asks on Friday afternoon as they trot down the stairs with the flood of students glad to see the weekend. 

Stiles smiles. “Surprisingly not terrible.”

“Well, you’re a natural,” Lydia says. “And if you keep it up, you’ll be in with the in-crowd for good soon enough.”

“That would be awesome,” Stiles says, and fuck yeah it would. To not be ignored, to have a friend other than Scott. Though right now, he’s not even sure he has Scott. Still, he’s making new friends. And there’s a party tomorrow night. His first actual party that doesn’t involve party hats. Jesus, that makes him sound like a loser. He reminds himself not to tell anyone that.

“Want me to pick you up on the way to Jackson’s?” Lydia asks as they head to the parking lot. 

“Sure, I guess,” he says since he has no idea where Jackson lives.

Lydia pauses. “Maybe I’ll come over early and help you pick out an outfit?”

“Yes,” Stiles says enthusiastically, a huge wave of relief crashing over him. It isn’t that he can’t dress himself, but fuck it if he has any idea what to wear to a party that won’t make him look like he sells drugs on the corner after school.

Lydia laughs and pats his shoulder. She must have been right about getting over his crush because he barely feels any flush when she does. Maybe it’s a good thing, especially with the way Ethan’s been talking to him lately.

“I’ll be over around nine,” she says and leaves him for her car. 

Crossing the lot, Stiles smiles to himself as people call goodbye to him. For the first time in his life, he’s not invisible, and damn, does it feel good.

*

Lydia picks out a new leather jacket and a black tee-shirt for Stiles to wear. He thinks it’s too tight and plucks at it the whole way to Jackson’s house as they drive in her shiny white Mazda. 

“Stop fidgeting,” she instructs him as they pull into a long gravel drive. “Act aloof, like there are other parties you could be at. Don’t act like you had nothing else to do. Also, go easy on the booze. With your stature, I’d say your limit would be around two drinks, maximum.”

Stiles nods, but he’s not really listening. Instead, he’s peering out the window at the huge house that looms ahead of them. He has never even seen a house that big outside of MTV Cribs reruns. He didn’t even know they had those in Beacon Falls.

“Unimpressed,” Lydia stresses as they park and step out. “Like you’ve seen it all before.”

Stiles has never seen anything like this as they enter the house, not outside of a movie. The huge house is filled to the brim with people Stiles has never met and isn’t entirely sure they even go to his school. They all have those cliched red cups and lounge against staircases like they were made to do it. Music thuds through the halls as Lydia winds her way in and Stiles follows.

 _I’m all about that bass, ‘bout that bass, no treble_ , rattles in Stiles’ bones as he pushes past knots of people in doorways and makes it to the kitchen.

“Remember,” Lydia says as grabs two beers from the fridge. “Two drinks. Don’t drink from the punchbowl. Either from a bottle or from the keg.” She hands him a bottle and cracks hers open on the countertop. Stiles is impressed.

It’s so different than what Stiles expected, and yet, somehow, it’s exactly what he’d expected. Lydia leaves him not long after arriving to talk with some girls she knows. For a while, Stiles isn’t sure what to do. His only references for this are TV shows and movies. Not the best examples. After he finishes his first beer, he goes in search of the keg.

He finds it in the backyard, Jackson lounging against it and a few of the other guys on the lacrosse team grouped around it. Derek is there, smiling at something one of the other guy’s says.

Jackson’s eyes fall on him first and his mouth curls slightly. “It’s Lydia’s new beau,” he drawls.

“You want a drink?” Derek offers, reaching for a red cup and pouring Stiles one full. He hands it over, and Stiles isn’t sure he imagines how Derek’s fingers brush against his as he takes it. 

“Where’s the girlfriend?” Jackson asks pointedly, taking a drink but keeping his eyes on Stiles as though he might attack him if he takes his eyes off him for a second.

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Stiles says because it seems important to Jackson.

“She hung out with you all summer.”

“She was just…” Stiles casts around for something to cover his ass. “Helping me with school stuff, you know, for college next year.”

Better for them to think he’s stupid than a dork.

Jackson doesn’t look like he believes him, but he finishes his drink and shoves the cup at Isaac to fill it up.

Stiles drinks his own, and it’s definitely not the best-tasting alcohol ever, but it’s first keg party. The most alcohol he’s ever had is when he and Scott sneak whiskey out of his dad’s cabinet, and then, it’s barely a mouthful each or else his dad will notice and he’ll get in spectacular trouble. This stuff is totally different, and not in a good way. Still, he drinks it because it’s a party and he doesn’t want anyone to think he’s being a tightass.

“Another?” Isaac asks politely, holding out a hand for Stiles’ cup.

For a second, he hesitates, remembering Lydia’s warning, but what the hell. It’s his first real party and he’s gonna have fun. He hands it over, catching Derek’s eyes across the keg. Derek smiles slightly and looks away. Yeah, Stiles definitely wants to have fun tonight, and he’s got his eye on the kind of fun he wants.

*

So the night doesn’t exactly go how Stiles thinks it will. After his third beer, and then fourth, he ends up pressed against a wall with Ethan leaning next to him. He isn’t sure Ethan is listening to what he’s saying, and honestly, Stiles isn’t sure what he’s actually saying, but words are coming out of his mouth and he can’t stop them.

“This is a really great party,” he says, nodding enthusiastically. The beer has dulled the sound of the music, and he likes the way the room spins slightly when he walks. 

“Jackson’s parents are loaded,” Ethan says, and he’s standing awfully close to Stiles, but Stiles merely grins. He feels hot, cheeks flushed, like there’s not quite enough air in the room, but he doesn’t want to go outside to get any.

“Yeah, his house is, like, five million times bigger than mine,” Stiles says, shouts over the music. He takes a step away from the wall and stumbles. Ethan’s hand is there to catch him, a warm pressure on his chest, and he glances at it. 

“Careful there,” he says with a smirk. “Don’t want you hurting yourself.”

“That would totally suck,” Stiles says, taking another drink of his beer. “Last year, I fell off my roof and broke my arm.”

“What the fuck were you doing on a roof?”

“Me and Scott were trying to tie a zipline from the chimney to a tree so we could jump the fence.”

“Who’s Scott?” Ethan asks, but Stiles isn’t listening. Instead, his attention is caught by the music.

“I fucking love this song!” he yells over the beat that fills the house and rattles the walls. “Do you like tis song?”

“It’s okay, I guess,” Ethan says, looking confused at Stiles’ enthusiasm. 

“’ _One, two, three, Peter, Paul, and Ma-ry_ ,’” he sings, not paying attention. Fucking Britney Spears, man, his kryptonite. 

“Ethan.” Derek shows up out of nowhere and Stiles stops singing to stare at him. “Jackson’s looking for you.”

“Fuck, why?” Ethan shoots a look at Stiles.

“Dunno.” He shrugs. “Just was.”

“Fuck,” Ethan curses again. He turns to Stiles. “Don’t go anywhere, okay?”

“Okay,” Stiles agrees easily, swaying to the song as Ethan leaves. He smiles at Derek when he’s gone. “So, you’re Derek.”

“And you’re Stiles,” Derek says with a slight smile. “You like Britney?”

“Fucking love her, dude,” Stiles says. “Guilty pleasure, though, shh, don’t tell anyone. I’m really into the Ramones, Mumford and Sons, All Time Low. Alex Gaskarth is so hot.”

“That’s quite a variety.” Derek takes a sip of his drink, and Stiles takes too long to admire the curve of his lips against the rim of the cup. He only stops when Derek arches an eyebrow.

“Huh? What, oh, yeah. I love music. Thought about starting a band but I’m kinda shit at playing any instruments that aren’t part of a third grade curriculum.”

Derek laughs, and wow, he’s so much hotter when he laughs. What Stiles wouldn’t give to get that mouth on him. He’ll do whatever Lydia says to make that happen.

“I hear you’re trying out for the team,” Derek says, and Stiles nods stupidly. He’d say yes to anything Derek asks right now.

“Yeah, definitely.”

Derek smirks and ruffles Stiles’ hair. “Then I’ll see you out there.”

“Yeah,” Stiles replies breathlessly, staring after Derek as he disappears into the crowd. With a sigh, he sinks back against the wall. He’s going to jerk off so much when he gets home, but for now, he needs another beer.

*

Sunday is pretty much the worst day of Stiles’ life so far, at least that he can remember. There may be some repressed memories of kindergarten but those don’t count. Instead, his head feels like it’s splitting in two, and his dad is home for once and won’t stop asking what’s wrong when he can barely drag himself out of bed at noon. Not that sleeping till noon is uncommon for him, it’s just, every beam of light hurts and he can’t even bring himself to eat the food that’s placed in front of him. He should have listened to Lydia.

All he remembers from the night before is talking to Ethan about something and then jerking off until he passed out asleep. He hopes that means it was a good night. He hopes it means he didn’t say or do anything stupid.

He has no one to tell him otherwise, so he goes to school on Monday, hangover-free and with a new spring in his step. It’s good to be noticed, he decides, when Isaac nods at him in greeting as he passes. When he reaches his locker, he’s surprised to find Ethan there, leaning against it like he owns it.

“Er, hi,” he says, wracking his brain for what he might have messed up already.

“You coming to tryouts?” Ethan asks, dropping his arm but leaving his shoulder pressed to the lockers. He’s taller than Stiles and more muscular despite Stiles’ improved physique. 

“Today?”

“After school,” Ethan says, and Stiles opens his locker. 

“I’ll be there.” 

“Great,” Ethan says, eyes flicking down Stiles. Stiles swallows thickly. He’s never really been looked at like that, and it makes him both nervous and excited at the same time. 

Ethan lopes off down the hall and Stiles stares after him until the first bell startles him. Shoving his books in his locker, he heads for his first class and barely makes it to his seat before the second bell rings. Something pokes him in the back and he turns to see Lydia in the seat behind his.

“How’d it go on Saturday?”

Stiles grins. “I think it went really good. Ethan just asked if I was going to tryouts tonight.”

“You are, right?” she asks seriously. “Because I didn’t spend all that time teaching you so you could wimp out.”

“I am,” he assures her. Her fervor scares him a little, and he wouldn’t dare say no.

She seems satisfied as she leans back. “So, Ethan, huh?”

Stiles hates that he flushes at the question. It’s just a simple question, but it’s really not. Stiles doesn’t really know what he thinks of Ethan yet. He just knows that Ethan is hot and no one that hot has ever given him the time of day before. 

He shrugs, trying to keep his cool. That’s what she would tell him to do, and then hit him with her pointer stick if he didn’t.

“He’s cool.”

Lydia smirks as the teacher tries to get the class’ attention. “Good boy.”

*

Maybe he should rethink this whole lacrosse thing, Stiles thinks as he faces a team of hulking guys in even more hulking uniforms. From up in the stands, they’ve never looked so big. But with six guys staring him down, his knees sort of tremble and he tightens his grip on the stick. The coach blows the whistle, and it’s like Stiles doesn’t remember a damn thing he learned over the summer.

Somehow, though, muscle memory kicks in because playing is better than being slammed into by massive guys. He manages to get the ball past a couple before someone - he thinks it’s Jackson - rams into his side, stick poking into his side, and he loses the ball and gets a nice bruise instead. 

“Cradle the ball,” someone murmurs in his ear as Stiles tries to regain his balance. He glances up, but Derek has gone after Jackson, and Stiles watches them collide. He can hear the impact of bodies and grimaces, but he’s not here to watch.

In the scramble, Derek gets the ball and heads for the goal. Stiles runs ahead. At least running he’s good at, thanks to Lydia. Derek’s caught by two other guys, preventing him from making the goal, but Stiles sees his eyes fall on him second before the ball is hurtling his way. His stick flashes up and the ball is in his net. 

“Oh fuck,” is all he says as everyone converges on him and he hurls the ball at the goal. He actually closes his eyes until strong hands grab him and pull him into a hug. He doesn’t even know who it is, but he opens his eyes and sees the ball in the goalie net.

“Get the ball out!” the coach shouts, staring at his stopwatch. The goalie flings it to a player on his team and Stiles looks up at Derek, who lets him go and pats his shoulder.

“Nice work.”

Stiles feels like he got hit in the head as Derek trots off after the other team. He can feel where Derek’s hands touched him, barely for a second, the warm press of Derek’s body against his. Fuck. Lacrosse. Lacrosse! He’s supposed to be trying out not fantasizing about Derek’s hands.

Pulling himself together, he follows Derek down the field.

*

Stiles edges around the corner in the locker room, his hands strategically placed in front of his towel as he moves to his locker. Everywhere he turns, there’s another ripped shirtless guy. He’s never going to make it out of here alive. Facing his locker, he pulls on his shirt and wonders if there’s a way to get his jeans on without letting everyone know he has an unbearable hard-on. It’s not his fault, okay. How could anyone not get hard with so many hot, sweaty guys around?

“You weren’t bad.” Ethan comes up beside him, a hand falling on his shoulder and Stiles jumps. Ethan grins. “Jumpy.”

“Just, uh, full of adrenaline,” he lies, keeping his body turned toward the lockers. Most of the guys are dressed by now and some have already left. If he can just hold on a little longer, he can escape without total embarrassment. 

“You’ll make the team for sure,” Ethan says, and his hand slides down Stiles’ back as he leaves. Stiles fights back a shiver.

“Good job out there,” Derek says as he passes by him, and Stiles nods vaguely. His hard-on is making it difficult to concentrate, and he lets out a sigh of relief when the locker room door shuts and he’s finally alone. He pulls on his jeans despite his aching cock, but he isn’t stupid enough to stay out in the open, and he heads to one of the bathroom stalls.

Sliding down against the wall, he lets out a sigh as his hand circles around his dick and pulls. He can’t help being a horny teenager, but he can at least help it that everyone knows. Closing his eyes, he bites down on his lower lip and jerks himself off, cheeks flushed, skin hot in his grip as he slides his fist down his prick, movements hard and fast. 

He thinks about sweat gleaming on Ethan’s chest when he lifted it to wipe his forehead. He thinks about Derek’s hands pressed to his shoulders, the warmth of his body. Shifting, he bites back a groan and pushes his hips up, into his hand.

Stiles has gotten pretty good at jerking himself off, but he’s not that great at being quiet about it, and he can’t help the whine that escapes as his mind conjures up an image of Derek, wet from the shower, his towel slipping down his hips.

Oh God, he’s almost there. His breaths comes shorter and his hand slides over his cock, throbbing in his grip. He slips against the floor but he can’t stop himself as pressure builds in his dick. He thinks about Derek’s mouth, sliding around his cock. He thinks about licking down Ethan’s muscles. He even thinks vaguely of Lydia’s eyes staring up at him, but he doesn’t know what it is that makes his hips arch up.

“Stiles?”

“Oh shit!” he curses, coming before he can even try to stop himself. Everything is wet and sticky, and he struggles to get his pants up before whoever it is can find him. “Fuck, fuck!”

“Stiles?” the voice comes again, closer and less impressed.

“Scott?” he asks, his panic lessening slightly as he gets his jeans up and reaches for the toilet paper to wipe off his hand. When he gets out of the stall, Scott is waiting for him and he keeps a good distance as Stiles washes his hands.

“I’m not even gonna ask,” Scott says and Stiles is glad. 

“What are you doing here?” Stiles asks, drying his hands. They haven’t actually talked in a few days, which is weird considering Stiles is usually talking Scott’s ear off.

“Just wanted to see if it was true.”

“What?”

“You. Playing sports.”

Stiles laughs for a second. “Well, everyone plays lacrosse.”

“You mean everyone cool.”

“Do we have to do this again?” Stiles asks, turning from the mirror. “I don’t know what your problem is.”

“I don’t have a problem.” Scott crosses his arms, though, and Stiles doesn’t believe him for a minute.

“What? Are you jealous that people are finally paying attention to me? That I have more friends than just you? It had to happen eventually.”

Scott’s lip curls and he pushes off the sink, stepping closer to Stiles. “They’re not your friends. They’re jocks. All they care about is getting laid and winning games.”

“You act like we don’t care about those things,” Stiles replies. He knows damn well that they both think about getting laid ninety-five percent of the time. Winning games, eh, not so much, but he could care about it. If he tries.

“At least you have a brain, or used to.”

Now that’s just going overboard, Stiles thinks with a frown. If Scott can’t be happy for him, then why the hell is he even there? So much for being best friends forever.

“Well, if you think that then why are you even talking to me?”

“I don’t know.” Scott shrugs. “Maybe I should stop.”

“Fine then,” Stiles says, and but something deep in his chest throbs when Scott actually turns. “I don’t need you. I have other friends.”

Scott doesn’t reply and leaves Stiles with the pain in his chest.

*

Being popular is strange, Stiles finds, when he spends lunch with the team and afternoons practicing for a match he doesn’t really care about, but it’s easy to get swept up in the enthusiasm when guys on the team are so excited. After a couple practices, he finds he even starts to understand the rules, something Lydia’s flashcards never quite got through.

So far, he’s somehow managed to not to blow his cover as someone who should be kept as far away from popular people as possible. Lydia’s fashion advice has helped him a lot - without her, he’d still be the loser in the back of class blabbering about video games with Scott.

Instead, he slides into his usual seat next to Ethan and catches Derek’s eyes on him. He admits to being a little confused, though, when Ethan’s arm brushes against his. Goosebumps erupt on his skin, and he swears Ethan is flirting with him, but it’s so hard to tell. And then there’s Derek, who hasn’t really talked to him much, but Stiles is okay with that. He likes the strong, silent type, especially when they have eyes that bore into him and a mouth that makes him think of dirty, messy blow jobs in the back of his jeep, or in the locker rooms, or in the janitor’s closet…

“Stiles? Are you listening, man?”

Stiles blinks, pulling himself back to reality to find half the group watching him. Jackson rolls his eyes like Stiles is stupid. That’s one person he hasn’t fooled yet.

“What?” he asks, and he swears he sees Derek smirk down at his tray when he does.

“You coming to the bonfire this weekend?” Ethan repeats and Stiles has no idea what he’s talking about.

“Bonfire?”

“In the woods. We have one every year at the start of the season. Only the best people are invited.”

A warmth curls in Stiles’ stomach at his words. “Best people.” He’s one of the Best People now.

“Er, yeah, of course. I’ll be there,” he says, biting back his stupid grin. When Ethan’s hand slides over his shoulder, he takes a deep breath and tries to focus on what Aiden is saying about their defense.

*

“You excited?”

Stiles looks up from the ground - it’s an unfortunate habit of his, staring at the ground when he walks, that Lydia attempted to break by tripping him, but it’s just made him more paranoid. Derek falls into step beside him, hair still damp from the showers.

“About the match?” Stiles huffs out a laugh. “I’m just hoping I don’t fuck up spectacularly. You know, fall on my face or get whacked in the balls with a stick.”

“That’s what cups are for,” Derek points out. “How’re your bruises?”

“Oh, they’re, you know, painful.” Stiles feels the one on his side. It’s purple now, which he takes to be a good sign.

Derek nods, and Stiles watches him for a moment, until Derek looks at him. Then he jerks his gaze away quickly, probably looking like a spaz as he tries to find something else to focus on. Fuck. 

They’re heading for the parking lot and rain has finally started after threatening to fall all day. Stiles is just glad it happened after practice. Just thinking of Derek wet and covered in mud is enough to make him half-hard. 

“You’re actually good,” Derek says as they cross the parking lot.

“Really?” Stiles isn’t sure he believes that because although he finally understands the rules and can catch the ball without dropping it, but good? No.

On his look, Derek amends his statement with an amused smile. “Okay, so you need some work, but you look good in the shorts.”

Stiles’ eyebrows go up. “Really?” he asks again, but he doesn’t get an answer except a Derek’s mouth twisting like maybe he hadn’t meant to say that. Stiles grins, though, and stuffs his hands in his pockets. Raindrops lands on his shoulders but he hardly notices. “So are you coming to the bonfire?”

Derek shrugs in agreement. “Better than hanging out with my sister.”

“You hang out with your sister?”

Derek gives him a look that tells Stiles he better not repeat that to anyone. They’re almost to Stiles’ car, and they’re going to have to stop talking soon, but Stiles doesn’t want to. It’s the first time he’s had a real conversation with Derek, although he’s imagined them plenty of times before. He’s usually more suave instead of the awkward pause that now falls between them.

Finally, he blurts out, “You wanna get food?” just as Derek says, “I should get home.”

“Oh,” Stiles says. “Right. Yeah, me too. My dad. Well, he’s probably not home, but I should be there if he comes home.”

He’s rambling, but he can’t stop himself. He can’t stop the swoop of disappointment at Derek’s answer. Of course Derek has something better to do. Derek’s been popular a lot longer than Stiles has.

“I’ll see you on Saturday,” Derek says, seemingly ignoring Stiles’ word vomit.

“Right, yeah, Saturday,” Stiles mumbles after him and sighs once he leaves. “Fucking get it together, Stiles.”

He yanks open the door to the jeep and climbs inside, out of the rain for now.

*

He doesn’t ask for Lydia’s help this time, picking out an outfit all on his own. He’s like the baby bird that’s finally left the nest, and he gets a stupid surge of pride when Lydia nods approvingly once he gets to the bonfire. He almost gets lost, considering it’s deep in the woods where they can’t drive, and it’s pitch black until he gets to the clearing.

The bonfire crackles and sparks, lighting up the large empty area surrounded by towering trees. It has to be a fire hazard and he bets his dad would shut the whole thing down so fast if he only knew. This time, when he takes a beer, he resolves it’ll be his only one. He wants to remember what happens at this party.

He avoids Jackson’s glare and tries to melt into the party. It’s easy for everyone else, but they look like they belong there. They’ve done this a million times. Stiles still feels like the last one on the bus. Or party train, as it were.

The only people he really knows there are the guys on the team and Lydia, but she’s busy enough with her own friends, and he can’t just hang out with her all night. He has to blend in. He pauses, glancing at the cup in his hand. Maybe another drink wouldn’t be a bad idea.

“Stiles.” Ethan interrupts his thought - traitorous thoughts, he tells himself firmly - coming up and smiling at him. “You didn’t get lost.”

“Nope,” Stiles says, biting back any rambling thoughts he might have. Cool people do not ramble.

“Take a walk with me,” Ethan says, and it’s not really a request, so Stiles follows him away from the bonfire. They pass Danny on the way, but Ethan barely glances at him. Stiles avoids his gaze. He doesn’t really know Danny, but Danny’s never been a jerk to him and now he’s going off with his boyfriend.

They walk into the trees, away from the music and the laughter. They leave it all behind until it’s just a vague echo and Stiles is beginning to feel like this is the start of a horror movie where the killer is going to jump out from behind a tree. Despite growing up in the woods, Stiles is pretty much a city boy, or at least, as city as he can get living in Beacon Hills.

Ethan stops, though, in a cluster of trees, and Stiles can only see the outline of his face in the moonlight creeping through the branches. For a moment, no one says anything. Stiles is shifts on his feet, hands in his pockets, but Ethan takes a step forward. Stiles echoes his movement with a step back, but his back hits a tree. 

“You’re pretty hot,” Ethan says, voice low though Stiles is sure they’re the only ones out here. 

“I-I am?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Ethan murmurs, and then his mouth is pressed against Stiles’.

It isn’t as though Stiles has kissed a lot of people before. Hell, no one even knew he existed until this year, so it’s not like he’s had a lot of practice. He’s thought about what it would be like, though, and it’s something like this, with Ethan’s tongue sliding along his lower lip. 

“What about Danny?” he asks, pulling back for half a second, but Ethan’s lips brush against his, and he can’t help sighing into the next kiss. For a first kiss, it sure as hell isn’t bad.

“Broken up,” Ethan replies, angling his head for a deeper kiss that leaves Stiles lightheaded.

“Fu…” he trails off into an exhale as Ethan pushes in closer.

If he had any self-control over his hormones, he doesn’t anymore, and he’s already getting hard. He jumps when Ethan’s hand slides in between them, breathing hard and biting his lip when Ethan’s hand curls around the bulge in his jeans.

Ethan smirks at Stiles’ reaction and licks the corner of his mouth. “How about you get on your knees and I’ll show you how broken up Danny and I are.” He switches their positions easily so he’s the one leaning against the tree.

Stiles doesn’t even stop to think, too eager. He doesn’t even stop to think that he’s never actually done this. He hopes enthusiasm will make up for technique as he drops to his knees. It isn’t exactly comfortable, kneeling on roots and rocks and hard dirt, but he has a faceful of Ethan’s erection, straining against his jeans, and he doesn’t give a fuck about his knees.

Stiles hands shake slightly as he unzips Ethan’s jeans and tugs them down over his hips, but it’s only partially out of nerves. He can’t fucking believe this is actually happening, and he’s unbearably hard at the thought.

Ethan’s cock is thick and dark, hot as he reaches up, trembling fingers sliding around the length. Skin is smooth under his fingertips, soft but hard as he tightens his grip. He’s practically drooling, staring at it up close. It’s different than his own, thicker, darker. 

“Come on, man,” Ethan urges him, and his hand slides to Stiles’ hair, pushing his face in closer. Stiles jerks a little at the sudden movement, unprepared.

Swallowing any nerves, he leans in, sliding his tongue over the length and listening to Ethan’s approving groan. His stomach stirs eagerly and he doesn’t take his time licking Ethan’s cock. He has no finesse, no style or technique, but it seems to work, and for the first time in his life, his mouth is around someone else’s dick.

It’s hot and heavy against his tongue, and he chokes a little when Ethan pushes his hips up. Reeling back, he tries to get control over himself. They make it look so easy in porn, but those people aren’t real. It’s the magic of the camera, he tells himself. In reality, it’s far messier, sloppier as he sucks eagerly and moans at the blood rushing to his prick. His jeans are too tight, and he blames Lydia for picking them way back in summertime. 

He doesn’t think he’s that great at giving blow jobs if the way he nearly chokes himself several times is any indication, but Ethan doesn’t seem to care. Maybe it’s different, getting your dick sucked. Stiles glances up once, but Ethan’s head is resting against the tree trunk, eyes half-lidded and his mouth open in a sigh.

Stiles toes curl as his cock throbs in his jeans. Without thinking, he hastily undoes the button and shoves his hand down his pants. The first contact is a welcome relief from the pressure, but he doesn’t stop sucking Ethan off. His lips slide over Ethan’s cock, wet and shiny when he pulls back and gasps for breath. How do porn stars do this? 

Ethan grunts, hips jerking up, and Stiles pulls back, but he thinks Ethan’s almost there. There’s precum on the tip of his cock and it tastes salty, bitter. 

“Yeah,” Ethan says, hand still on Stiles’ head, keeping him in place as he pushes his hips up. 

Stiles tries to pull back, not to choke, and Ethan’s fingers tighten in his hair, but Ethan lets him just as he comes. It’s warm and thick against his tongue, and Stiles spits it out before he stops to think, but Ethan doesn’t seem to notice.

Leaning back, Stiles lets out a breath, his hand still tight around his cock. He hasn’t come yet and it’s almost unbearable. He doesn’t even care what it’ll look like as he jerks himself off, quickly, biting his lip to stop himself from being too loud. He doesn’t need a repeat of Scott in the bathroom. Ethan just leans against the tree, breathing hard and not speaking as Stiles finishes with a gasp, hand sticky and face hot.

He wipes his hand on the grass and stumbles to his feet. Did that actually just happen? Yes, Ethan is still here, zipping up his jeans and sweeping back his hair. Stiles feels a strange surge of accomplishment. He just gave someone a blow job. He just made a guy come. Not like it’s hard thing to do, he admits, as he watches Ethan brush down his shirt, but still. He’s never had the chance before.

Ethan catches his eye and nods through the trees. “We should get back.”

“Right,” Stiles agrees, and he allows himself a moment of unbridled glee when Ethan’s back is turned, but then he straightens out his face and follows Ethan back towards the flickering bonfire.

*

Things are different, afterwards. It’s like Stiles has been accepted into the group, the pack, Ethan says off-handedly one day, which makes sense since they are the Beacon Hill Wolves. Lydia gives him approving nods in the halls between classes, but she yanks him aside before lunch one day to crowd him into a corner.

“So is it true?” she asks, lowering her voice.

“What?” he asks. He hasn’t heard any rumors about himself, but then, the people rumors are about rarely do.

“That you hooked up with Ethan at the bonfire,” she says with a significant glance. “I didn’t know you had it in you.”

Stiles feels his cheeks going red despite himself. Technically, Ethan had started it. Stiles had just kind of… done it. Still, a hook-up was a hook-up, and it had been his first at that. A year ago, he would have never imagined he’d be having this conversation with Lydia, or with anyone for that matter.

“It was awesome,” he whispers because as awesome as it was, he doesn’t need the whole school knowing. Not the school really, but Scott, who still hasn’t talked to him since their fight in the bathroom. He’s sure he’ll have something scathing to say on the subject and Stiles would prefer to save himself the angst.

“Are you dating then?” she asks, keeping her voice low to match his despite that most of the students have already gone to lunch.

“I don’t know.” Stiles isn’t really sure. He hasn’t really talked to Ethan about it, and talking makes it seem like he’s stupid and wants to ‘define the relationship’ after one blow job, but a part of him desperately wants to know. He can’t just come out and ask, can he? Maybe it was just a hook-up thing. Cool people do that, right?

Stiles has never dated anyone. The thought of actually dating someone never entered his mind until now, mostly because he couldn’t even get someone to _look_ at him before, let alone go out with him. He honestly has no idea what dating even entails, and the thought scares him a little. 

“Well,” she says, snapping back into instructor mode, “just remember to think before you speak. So far, you’ve managed not to get yourself in trouble, but it’s only been a month. There’s still a long way to go before the year is over.”

Her words aren’t reassuring, but Stiles nods. It’s true. Barely a month has passed, and he’s just barely managed not to make a complete idiot out of himself. There have been a few close calls, like the other day in practice where he’d tripped over his own feet and fallen into Jackson, only to have Jackson whack his stick in his face, despite being on the same team. Jackson had gotten a penalty. Stiles had gotten a welt on his cheek. The rest of the team had merely laughed it off, which Stiles hopes is a good thing.

“Don’t worry,” she says a moment later when Stiles can’t stop thinking about all the things that could go wrong - and there are so many. “Remember the cards. You’ll be fine. Besides, you can be charming when you’re not being a spaz.”

“Thanks,” he deadpans, but it’s the most reassuring thing she’s said so far, and right now, she’s the only one, aside from Scott, who knows his secret identity, and he’d like to keep it that way.

*

“Stiles!” Ethan shouts from across the field as the ball comes hurtling at Stiles. He scoops it up and makes a dash for the goal, but Jackson is right there, slamming into his shoulder. Stiles slips on the wet grass and lands flat on his back.

For a second, there is no air in his lungs and he gasps, his whole life - as pathetic as it has been - flashing before his eyes, but then air is back and rough hands are pulling him up. It’s Derek, and Stiles only has a second to savor the brush of his fingers against his arm before Ethan is there, brushing grass off his back and stepping between him and Derek. Behind Ethan, Derek seems to pause, a looming presence, but he steps back.

“Nice,” Ethan says. “Hold onto the ball next time.”

Stiles huffs. “If someone didn’t have it out for me, I might be able to.” He glares at Jackson, who picks at the dirt on his shorts instead.

“Jackson’s just playing like he’s supposed to,” Ethan says, handing Stiles his stick. “You should too.”

Stiles doesn’t point out that Jackson’s had it out for him all year, but he takes the stick and kicks the grass. 

Ethan’s hand reaches up to the back of his neck and squeezes, something unexpected, and it catches Stiles by surprise. They still haven’t talked about anything, and sometimes, Ethan pretends it didn’t happen, but then there are times when Ethan’s hand lands on his thigh at the lunch table and that one time on Monday where they ended up in the janitor’s closet.

“Don’t take it personal,” Ethan says, but it’s too late.

Stiles doesn’t know why Jackson doesn’t like him, but the feeling’s mutual. It doesn’t matter that Jackson has the bone structure of a Greek god and the body of one too. He’s still a dick.

Coach blows the whistle and they go back into play. Jackson has the ball, but Stiles is ready as he comes running down the field. His shoulder slams into Jackson’s, and as a result of Jackson propelling forward, he gets a knee in the stomach, right where his bruise has finally almost healed. It hurts like a bitch and he doubles up, just as in pain as Jackson for a moment.

No one blows the whistle and someone else steals the ball, but Stiles meets Jackson’s glare. He doesn’t say a word as he stands up, wincing at the pain in his side, but he goes after the ball and leaves Jackson behind.

*

Stiles grimaces at the pain in his side as he tugs his shirt over his head. The rest of the team has already left except a few stragglers. It’s taken Stiles longer than usual to get dressed since it feels like he’s broken a rib or something. It doesn’t help when Ethan passes him and pats his side. 

“War wound,” he says with a wink at Stiles and then he leaves. Aiden follows him out, and then Stiles is alone with Derek. 

“Shit,” Stiles curses, clutching his side. “Does it always fucking hurt this much?”

“Yeah,” Derek replies to Stiles’ disappointment. 

Stiles groans and tries to grab his bag off the floor, but it hurts too much. 

“Here,” Derek says, seemingly taking pity on him. It’s true. He’s pitiable. He reaches over and yanks up Stiles’ shirt.

“Whoa, what are you doing?” Stiles yelps, surprised at Derek’s hands on his body.

“I’m gonna ice it, if that’s okay with you.”

“Oh.” Stiles stops his undignified flailing. “Right, okay.”

“Take your shirt off.”

“But I just got it on,” Stiles whines, and he doesn’t care what he sounds like. Everything hurts too much. Why had he listened to Lydia? Couldn’t he have learned badminton? There are no bruises in badminton. There’s also nothing cool about badminton. 

“Up,” Derek says, clearly not listening to him and tugging the hem of his shirt up. Stiles lifts his arms obligingly and Derek tosses it on the bench. He takes in Stiles’ bruise, the one that’s spreading over his ribs, red and purplish. “That’s one hell of a bruise.”

“You can thank Jackson for that,” Stiles mutters. “I don’t get what his problem is.”

Derek heads for the coach’s office, and Stiles hears him rummaging in the freezer. “From what I hear, he’s pissed about this summer.”

“What summer? I didn’t do anything to him,” Stiles says, but he’s distracted as Derek presses an ice pack to his stomach. He jumps at the cold.

“I hear you spent the whole time with Lydia,” Derek says, moving the pack around while Stiles squeaks at the coldness. 

“So?” Stiles isn’t really interested now, not with Derek standing so close to him, a hand pressing the ice pack to his skin.

“So… rumor has it Jackson’s got a thing for Lydia.”

“But I’m not dating Lydia.”

Derek shrugs. His eyes graze down Stiles’ chest, and Stiles suddenly feels hot despite the ice on his ribs. “Some people get jealous easily,” he says, voice quiet.

Stiles is only thinking that they’re close enough that with only the slightest lean forward, he could kiss Derek, but Derek glances up just as he thinks it.

“I hear you and Ethan are a thing.”

“I, I don’t know, I guess,” Stiles says, and Derek takes his hand, placing it on the ice pack to hold it. Stiles wants to say something else, but he doesn’t know what. He isn’t really sure what he and Ethan are, or aren’t. 

“You should keep ice on that for a while,” Derek says, handing Stiles his shirt. “But let it rest too.”

Stiles doesn’t know what to say, but as Derek turns, he takes a stumbling step forward, wincing at the pain in his ribs. “Wait.”

Derek turns and Stiles hesitates. 

“It’s gonna take me forever to get my shirt on again.”

For a second, Derek pauses and then he almost smiles as he comes back and takes the shirt. “You’re pretty useless.” He unrolls the shirt and helps Stiles into it, his fingers grazing over his side as it falls.

Stiles smiles back. “Thanks.”

Derek merely nods and turns again. Stiles wait until he hears the locker room door shut before sighing stupidly. What is he doing? 

*

Normally, when he has a problem, Stiles goes to Scott, because even if Scott doesn’t have the answer, he’ll listen to him whine about his problem until they can solve it with endless hours of video games. These days, Stiles plays the games by himself and frowns at the controller next to him on the living room floor. 

If Scott was there, he would probably just laugh at his problem because, honestly, isn’t this exactly the kind of problem Stiles has always wanted? Maybe not the confusion about who he likes, but the question of if they both like him. He can’t tell with Derek, but he thinks sometimes, there might be something. Of course, there’s definitely something with Ethan, considering how many blow jobs Stiles has given him the past week and a half. He’s gotten a lot better at it, though, thanks to the miracle of the internet.

He still isn’t sure what he and Ethan are, though, and he doesn’t want to ask. Why ruin a good thing? Still, sex isn’t everything. Actually, sex is a lot of it, especially since Stiles has never had much of it before.

The only thing Stiles gets from Scott these days are annoyed looks in the halls. 

They’re easy to ignore, though, when Ethan catches up to him in the hall and slings an arm over his shoulder just as they pass Danny. Stiles cringes away from Danny’s gaze, and Ethan ignores him completely. 

“I hear your dad’s the sheriff,” he says curiously. “How come I didn’t know that?”

Stiles shrugs. It seems like everyone knows his dad but nobody knows him.

“Some of the guys were talking and they bet you’d be too chicken to steal your dad’s gun.”

“What?” Stiles asks, confused. They pass by classroom doors, and Stiles really needs to get to Physics, but Ethan appears to be heading for the front doors.

“They bet a hundred bucks that you wouldn’t do it, but I bet you would.”

“Wait, what?” Stiles says again as Ethan pushes out the front door and the bell rings behind him. He glances back, but all he sees as the door swings shut is Scott’s face watching him go. “Why would you do that?”

“’Cause I believe in you,” Ethan says, and that makes Stiles stop.

“You do?” he asks, unsure. No one’s ever really said that before. Most people only believe that he’ll mess up, that he’ll say something to make the situation worse.

Ethan nods. “They said you had to get it by tonight, or else I lose.”

“Whoa, whoa, wait a minute,” Stiles says as he realizes exactly what Ethan means. “You want me to steal my dad’s gun? He’d fucking shoot me!”

“Not if you’ve got the gun.”

“He’s got more than one gun,” Stiles assures him. It’s ludicrous. Stealing his dad’s gun? It’s a felony, not to mention he’d be grounded for thirty years _after_ he got out of prison. Stiles doesn’t think he’d do well in prison. Even with Lydia’s workout regimen, he’s still half the size of most of those guys.

“Then he won’t even notice,” Ethan says flippantly. They’ve reached his car and Stiles has no idea where they’re going.

“I can’t,” Stiles says, shaking his head, but Ethan turns to him, an unimpressed look on his face.

“You want to be a part of the team or d’you want to play it safe? If you don’t get the gun, I’m out a hundred bucks, and I don’t like losing.”

He opens the car door, and Stiles hesitates a second, considering asking what they’re doing, but in the end, he doesn’t. If this is what it takes to not be a nobody, he’s going to do it.

Later, when they’re parked in the glade and Stiles has his hand down Ethan’s pants, jerking him off while Ethan sucks a dark red mark on his neck, Stiles can’t help the feeling that this is a terrible idea and he’s going to regret it.

*

It’s a terrible idea. Stiles _knows_ it’s a terrible idea, but that doesn’t stop him from doing it. If he doesn’t, everyone will know what he really is - a loser, and he has no intention of going back to that, not now that he finally has friends. 

Sitting across the table from his dad, he picks at his food, almost the same as his dad, but his dad does it because Stiles made a kale salad. It’s not food, his dad would say. They’re weeds.

“What’s wrong?” his dad asks. “Have we finally reached the point where you made something even you don’t want to eat?”

Stiles forces a smile. “You’re gonna eat it, Dad, and you’re gonna like it.” He isn’t thinking about the salad, though. Instead, his mind is on the key hanging off his dad’s belt. It isn’t as though he hasn’t _borrowed_ things from his dad before, but he’s never done anything like this. Usually, he swipes the keys so he and Scott can open the gate to the water tower, not so he can steal a gun out of the case in the den.

Getting the key isn’t the hard part. Getting the gun isn’t even the hard part. The hard part is convincing himself to do it.

“Everything okay at school?” his dad asks, pushing aside all the kale and spearing an olive on his fork. For once, Stiles doesn’t reprimand him for not eating the healthy stuff. He’s too distracted.

“Fine,” he says, and that answer makes his dad look up.

“Just fine?” he asks, and Stiles realizes a second too late that ‘fine’ isn’t an acceptable answer to those people who actually know him. "Where’s Scott? I haven’t seen him lately,” his dad says, though, saving Stiles from coming up with something other than that he’s trying to be popular.

That question isn’t any easier. Stiles frowns at his salad for a moment. “I don’t know. He’s just busy with stuff. You know, senior year and everything.”

“Speaking of,” his dad says, pointing his fork with the olive still attached at Stiles. “Have you been thinking about colleges? Deadlines will be coming up.”

“Yeah, Dad,” he says, although he hasn’t really given it much thought. His teachers talk about it and the guidance counselor has gone around to all the English classes and handed out pamphlets, but Stiles doesn’t know where he wants to go. There are too many schools in California, and what if he wants to go somewhere else? He’s heard people talking about Arizona, Oregon, even the east coast.

Normally, he would ask Scott where he’s thinking of going, but Scott isn’t really an option right now, which leaves him at a loss. Still, he has to decide where to apply before January, with or without Scott. He’s never realized how much he depended on Scott before now. No wonder he never had any other friends - he’s never even tried.

College is the least of his worries at the moment, and Stiles resolves to act more normal or his dad will suspect something’s up. He shoves too much salad in his mouth.

“I was thinking of maybe not going to college,” he says, and his dad smiles grimly.

“Nice try.”

“No, seriously,” he goes on, “I could just hop on a plane and bum around Europe for a year or something. You’re always saying I need more culture outside of Beacon Hills. What better than to stay in dirty hostels and party with foreigners?”

His dad tries not to look amused, but Stiles can see the edge of his mouth twitching. “Just stay in school, Stiles,” he says finally.

“Okay,” Stiles agrees. “But don’t be surprised when you get a postcard from Ibiza this time next year.”

His dad snorts at his plate, but he seems satisfied with his answer and doesn’t ask anymore questions about school or Scott the rest of the night.

After dinner, Stiles heads to his room, trying to distract himself, but all he can think of is what he’s about to do. Eventually, he ends up sitting on his hands so he’ll stop fidgeting. His phone vibrates with a text. It’s Ethan.

_Come to Cayman’s Grove when you get it._

Stiles doesn’t reply to the message, pressing his palms together. It seems to take hours before he hears his dad’s bedroom door shut, and the house goes quiet. He still waits another half an hour before he ventures out of his room - his dad usually falls asleep quickly but that’s no guarantee. 

The door creaks when Stiles opens it and he winces, but his dad doesn’t stir. The room is pitch black but Stiles knows it well enough not to knock into any tables or dressers as he sneaks in. He can’t help feeling that something terrible is going to happen. 

He jumps at every sound, every creak of a floorboard, the tap of a tree branch against the window, wind whistling through the cracks. He can’t help being paranoid. Never in his life has he actually gotten away with anything - it’s what comes with being the sheriff’s kid. All the police officers know his face; if there was one instance where Stiles would actually appreciate being invisible, it would be to the local authorities.

But it’s night time and most of the officers are doing their routine inspections right about now. No one will notice Stiles going out, if he can just get the keys and get out of there.

They keys sit on the bedside table, almost too easy to take, and sometimes Stiles wonders if his dad does it on purpose, just so he can get him in trouble later. Still, it makes it easy for Stiles to slide them off the table and into his hand, clenching tight to stop the jingle that sounds more like a church bell to his ears.

His dad makes a noise, but he doesn’t wake, and Stiles backs out of the room, shutting the door as slowly as possibly to avoid making any noise. He isn’t in the clear yet, not even with the keys in hand, and he heads for the den.

The cabinet stands in a corner, locked and possibly loaded, and Stiles has always had clear instructions to keep away from it. His dad has taught him how to shoot, but that’s different. That was a shooting range with targets and controlled circumstances. That wasn’t going into someone’s gun cabinet and taking out the police-issued Glock 22.

It’s always heavier than Stiles expects - from the few times his dad let him hold it on the range - and he removes it from its case carefully. He double checks that it’s locked before tucking it in his bag. A noise outside, probably just a car door, makes Stiles jump and clutch the strap of his bag.

He has to get out of here.

It’s probably the worst Stiles has ever felt about sneaking out. With Scott, it’s always fun, always stupid, and if they get caught, it isn’t the end of the world. This, this could get him in real trouble.

 _”So you better not get caught,”_ echoes Ethan’s voice in his head.

The whole way to the Grove, Stiles is sure he’s going to be caught. Every noise is someone following him. Every rustle of branches, every cat in the darkness, is a spy. By the time he makes it to the Grove, he’s fairly sure he’s had about ten heart attacks.

Finding the guys isn’t hard - a small group of them lurk in the shadows, cell phone screens lighting up their faces. Ethan steps out as Stiles climbs through the brambles - the grove isn’t exactly easy to get to. It takes climbing over a small ravine and through tangled shrubs to even reach the hard part of climbing up the hill to the grove of trees that grow so close together that they block out all natural light, even in the daytime. At night, it’s pitch black and Stiles wishes he’d thought to bring a flashlight.

“Did you get it?” Ethan asks eagerly, and behind him, Stiles sees Aiden, Jackson, and a few other guys from the team. Derek lingers in the back, watching as Stiles hesitates.

“I don’t know if this is a good idea,” he says, keeping a tight hand on his bag as though they might seize it from him. “Why do you want it anyway?”

Jackson steps forward, eyeing Stiles with disdain. “He didn’t get it. I told you he was a wimp.”

“Shut up, Jackson,” Aiden snaps from behind him. “Well? Did you or not?”

“It’s just a bet,” Ethan says, tone reassuring, but Stiles feels far from reassured. Why are so many of them there? Just so they can see a gun? Did they all think he’d chicken out?

Against Stiles’ better judgement, and he’ll be honest, he has never had much of it, he takes the gun out of his bag. A collective impressed murmurs runs around him but Stiles doesn’t feel proud of himself.

“Let me see,” Ethan says, but Stiles pulls it back towards him.

“I can’t.”

“Sure you can.” Ethan holds out a hand expectantly. Behind him, the rest of the guys watch him, and Stiles finally understands what those stupid videos they show in health class about peer pressure actually mean. 

“Yeah, hand it over,” Jackson says coolly from behind Ethan, as though mocking Stiles. Derek says nothing, lurking behind the rest of the guys but keeping a close eye on what’s going on. Stiles wishes he would say something, but he doesn’t know what.

Every guilty bone in his body tells Stiles not to, but he gives it to Ethan anyway.

“Sweet,” Ethan says, holding it up and unlocking it easily.

“Careful,” Stiles says - years of gun safety drilled into him by his father haven’t gone to waste at least. 

“This thing is a beast,” Ethan says, and Jackson and Aiden step up to examine in. “You guys owe me a hundred bucks.”

“Fuck you,” Jackson mutters, taking the gun out of his hands. “Just because your boy toy did what you told him to.”

Stiles opens his mouth to argue that, but he catches Derek’s eye and bites his lip instead. In all reality, he knows that arguing with Jackson is just a great way to get kneed in the stomach again, but that doesn’t stop him from wanting to. Besides, his bruise is finally starting to heal, just in time for their first match next week.

“How’s the kickback?” Jackson asks, and before Stiles can even answer, he fires the gun.

The noise is almost deafening in the silence of the woods. A bird squawks indignantly in a nearby tree. Stiles nearly jumps out of his skin as he whips around.

“What the hell are you doing?” he demands, and even Jackson looks a little surprised at his tone.

“Relax,” he says like it isn’t a big deal, but it’s a fucking huge deal. You can’t just walk around shooting guns, especially in the woods, especially at night.

“Calm down,” Ethan says, but Stiles seizes the gun from Jackson’s hands. Jackson is so surprised that he doesn’t even try to stop him, not until it’s already slipped through his fingers. Stiles jerks it away, though, sliding on the lock and shoving it in his bag. His hands are shaking as he puts it away.

“You can’t just shoot off guns in the woods,” Stiles says, even though he knows none of them care.

“Don’t be a little bitch,” Jackson says dismissively. “It’s fun. What else is there to do in this shithole town? Just because you’re scared of a little gun.”

“Are you kidding me?” Stiles bursts out, aware everyone is watching him. “You could kill someone with this, and I’d be the one who’d get blamed because I took it. My dad would literally murder me.”

Jackson shrugs as though he doesn’t care, and Stiles realizes that he doesn’t. He doesn’t care if Stiles gets in trouble. It’s just an excuse to do something, to not be bored.

“Come on, Stiles,” Ethan says, a hand landing on his shoulder, but it doesn’t feel calming. Instead, it feels dangerous, like a warning. “Stop acting like a loser. It’s just a joke.”

It’s not a joke, and Stiles knows it, but he thinks about what Lydia said, way back in the beginning of summer, that being popular is about making sacrifices.

In the end, he shrugs, but he doesn’t take the gun out.

“I’m bored,” Aiden announces, thankfully breaking the tension. “Let’s go to Jackson’s and drink his parent’s beer.”

“Whatever,” Jackson mutters, but Stiles doesn’t miss the way he glares at him as they head out of the Grove. Ethan doesn’t say anything to him either, but Stiles thinks he catches a hint of suspicion in his gaze as he follows Jackson.

Stiles takes up the rear, behind Derek, who’s been quiet the whole time. He wants to say something to him, something to prove he’s not as stupid as he seems, but Derek barely glances at him. Well, Stiles had been right; the evening couldn’t have gone worse unless someone had actually been shot. It’s a tiny consolation considering the circumstances, and Stiles keeps a hold of his bag firmly as he struggles through the underbrush after the team.

*

The first match starts in an hour, and Stiles kneels on the wet grass behind the groundskeeper’s shed. He’s got Ethan’s pants around his ankles, and admittedly, he’s not really focused on what he’s doing. He can’t help thinking about the match, his first match where the coach actually wants him to play, not sit on the bench. He’s also thinking about how when Ethan dragged him around the back of the school, he’d muttered something about Stiles being lucky.

Stiles hadn’t gotten to ask what that meant before Ethan had pushed him onto his knees and unzipped his jeans. 

Ethan’s hand pushes his head down, makes him go faster, but Stiles isn’t complaining. They don’t really have a lot of time since they have to be changed and on the field in less than an hour. He’s getting better at it, he thinks, as he pulls off and listens to Ethan’s heavy breathing. His own dick throbs in his jeans and he digs his heel against it. If he doesn’t get off soon, it’s going to be a very unpleasant game.

“Yeah,” Ethan groans, fingers clenched in Stiles’ hair

Things have been a little weird since the whole gun incident that Stiles doesn’t like to think about. He’d managed to get both the gun and the keys back without his dad noticing. He should have been elated, but instead, every time he thinks about it, guilt surfaces like bile in his throat. To make it worse, the other day at dinner his dad had said, “Got some reports of gunshots in the Grove a few nights ago.”

It had taken all of Stiles’ self-control not to blurt out what he knows and give himself and the rest of the team away.

Someone’s going to find out. Somehow, he’s going to get in trouble for it. If he doesn’t, then something is very wrong with the universe. The universe loves to see Stiles punished.

“Faster,” Ethan grunts, and Stiles wonders why he never gets blowjobs. It’s always Ethan pushing him down, always Ethan’s cock in his mouth, not the other way around. Not that Stiles is complaining because this is more sex than he’s ever had in his life, but he wouldn’t say no to getting his dick sucked.

He goes faster, though, shoving his hand down his jeans since it’s unlikely Ethan’s going to help him out with that.

Ethan groans above him, and Stiles pulls back seconds before Ethan comes, no warning, just the jerk of his hips and a sharp breath. Gritting his teeth, Stiles jerks himself off desperately, finishing quicker than usual, but Ethan has already yanked up his jeans and sweeping back his hair.

Stiles pushes himself off the ground, wiping the water and dirt off his knees. Maybe, at some point, they can do this inside where he won’t be walking around with evidence on him all day. His dad is the sheriff. He’ll notice at some point that all of Stiles’ jeans have stains on the knees. 

“Let’s go,” Ethan says, not even affected. The only evidence is the slight tinge of pink to his cheeks, but he looks like that normally. 

Stiles starts to regret the whole coming in his pants thing as they head to the locker room.

“So,” he says awkwardly when Ethan makes no effort to say anything. “I was thinking maybe we could, you know, go out sometime or, um, eat something together? Besides lunch, I mean. Like, there’s this place on the highway, on the way to the beach, it’s kind of small and, well, the guy who runs it is a little scary but the food is good. I used to go there with Scott all the time.”

Ethan glances at him, eyebrows furrowed as he goes on, unable to stop himself. If Lydia was here, she would smack him.

Stiles bites his lip and curls his fingernails into his palm to stop.

“Yeah, we’re not dating,” Ethan says after a moment, like it should be painfully obvious, and maybe it is, but Stiles missed that somehow. “You give good head. That’s all.”

“Oh.” Despite himself, Stiles feels disappointed. Not that he’d thought… It’s just… Yeah, he’d kind of thought. They’d hooked up more than a few times now and isn’t dating what you do in high school?

“Why?” Ethan asks suspiciously, gazing at him now. “Did you think we were? Did you think we were going to ride off in the sunset on a fucking white horse?”

“No,” Stiles says quickly, and he tries to smile, like it’s all a joke. “Who wants to do that?”

Okay, so maybe he’d thought about what it would be like to date someone. Other people date. Why can’t he? What’s wrong with him?

Ethan looks a little skeptical, an eyebrow arched as they walk. “Don’t even bother, Stiles. You’re so not cool enough for that. Besides, I’m getting back together with Danny.”

“You said you broke up.” A rock thuds in Stiles’ stomach, both at the Danny part and the cool part. Maybe he hasn’t fooled anyone, just himself.

Ethan shrugs. “That was before. You were just something to do in the meantime.”

Stiles stops walking, a feeling of shock and dismay washing over him. Ethan has been using him. He doesn’t know why it feels so terrible, like someone is grabbing his guts and twisting them. He knew it was to be too good to be true.

Ethan turns back to him and shakes his head. “Don’t make it weird, Stiles.” He says it like Stiles better not. Stiles better not bring it up.

Stiles has no choice but to let Ethan leave. He feels like shit, though, as he drags himself to the locker room. The other guys are already there, getting ready, and Stiles reaches his locker at long last. Ethan ignores him completely and Stiles yanks open the locker.

Beside him, Derek glances at him. “You okay?”

Stiles doesn’t even know how to answer that, and Lydia’s flashcards surface in his mind.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “I’m fine.”

*

The only consolation to Stiles’ bruised self-worth is that Ethan and Danny don’t get back together minutes after the game. It takes at least a week before Stiles sees them together, though it’s not as if he’s been looking. Mostly he avoids Ethan, but avoiding Ethan means avoiding the team, which means that Stiles has no one to talk to. And for Stiles, that can be a real problem.

Plus, he can’t stop having lunch with the team, so he has to suffer through endless meals watching Ethan and Danny together. It wouldn’t be so painful if Stiles didn’t feel so utterly stupid.

“So,” Lydia says one day after school, after she’s caught Stiles at his locker. “Is popularity everything you thought it would be and more?”

Stiles shuts his locker and turns to her. “Why didn’t you tell me popular people were jerks?”

Lydia raises an eyebrow. “I assumed it was common knowledge. You’re not stupid, Stiles.”

He sighs and shoves his books in his bag. “I thought they were only jerks to other people, not their friends.”

Lydia presses her lips together and doesn’t reply to him. Stiles doesn’t need her to. He knows the answer.

It’s raining outside and Stiles pauses as they reach the front doors to school. He doesn’t want to go out in it - all he has is a thin sweatshirt and the rain is coming down in Biblical proportions. Lydia is much more prepared with her red raincoat.

“I’m sorry about Ethan,” Lydia says as they stand there and Stiles wonders what the chances are he’ll make it to his car without getting soaked.

“How did you know?” he asks, surprised. He hasn’t told anyone, but then, he has no one to tell.

“Word gets around when you’re popular.” She shrugs. “Plus he and Danny have been making out all over school. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist.”

“Great,” Stiles mutters. Probably everyone knows by now. Everyone knows about his humiliation.

Lydia glances at him. “Does that mean you’re not going to play in the basketball game tomorrow?”

“I have to.” Stiles sighs. “Not that I can play basketball either.” Whoever suggested a basketball game for fun ought to have been shot is all Stiles can say.

“Ah, well,” Lydia says with a smirk. “If you need a teacher--”

“No, thanks,” Stiles interrupts. “I know how you coach and I’d be running formations for hours.”

“They’re called set plays.”

“Exactly.” It’s bad enough that he’s permanently covered in bruises thanks to lacrosse. He doesn’t need to pull a muscle learning basketball techniques as well. Maybe it will keep raining and they’ll have to cancel it. They can’t do it in the gym since they’re not allowed in after hours except for practice. Maybe Stiles won’t have to play or face the team at all. He’s allowed to hope, isn’t he?

“You’ll be fine,” Lydia assures him, buttoning up her coat. “It’s not the end of the world.”

It’s easy for her to say; her future isn’t riding on what a group of guys think of her. He doesn’t get to tell her that, though, as she opens the door and steps into the downpour. Stiles remains inside, watching water drip off the roof into a rapidly-growing stream at the bottom of the stairs.

*

Stiles wakes up to cloudy skies, but no rain and though he prays for it all day, by the time school lets out, some of the puddles have evaporated, leaving the basketball court splotchy but playable. 

The thought of playing basketball with Ethan and Jackson, and everyone else on the team, is not too appealing, but Stiles reminds himself firmly that he wanted this. He’d spent all summer working for this and now he has it. He hadn’t counted on Ethan happening or the demands that came with being popular. Somehow, he’d never quite believed the movies. He thought they’d been exaggerating for dramatic effect.

All Stiles wants to do right now is talk to Scott, but the only times he sees Scott is in Physics class and Scott tends to ignore him these days.

So Stiles is faced with playing in the game, and he shows up to the court, shivering a little in the chilly air.

“You’re on the shirts team,” Aiden tells him, and Stiles is so glad because he’s cold enough and he doesn’t really want to take off his shirt. The other bright side is that Derek is on the skins team. Maybe the universe does like Stiles a tiny bit.

By the time they start, a light mist has started, but no one suggests canceling the game. Stiles catches sight of Lydia on the sidelines, standing under an umbrella, very noticeable in her bright red rain coat. She pulls it off, though. Stiles can barely get dressed in the morning without texting her for an opinion.

Despite being forced to play basketball for years in gym class, Stiles is still a mediocre player at best. Most of the time, no one passes to him, and he prefers it that way. The one time the ball somehow lands in his hands, he’s blocked by Derek, and it only takes a second to be distracted by the layer of water on his skin before Derek steals the ball and makes a basket.

“Nice going,” Jackson snaps as he passes Stiles.

“Sorry,” Stiles replies, though he doesn’t really mean it. It’s just a game.

“Just watch it next time,” Jackson replies, pushing past Stiles.

“What is your problem, dude?” Stiles asks and it comes out louder than he means to. The rest of the guys seem to halt, turning to watch what will inevitably be a showdown. 

“The only problem I have is your shitty basketball game.” Jackson turns to Stiles, breathing hard from the game, and Stiles knows it’s a bad idea to start something, but he just can’t help it. He’s had to deal with Jackson and his comments since the beginning of the year.

“Well, I think it’s something else,” Stiles says, just as angrily, “and if you don’t want to tell me then just fucking hit me, man, and get it over with.”

Stiles doesn’t know what he’s saying. It’s probably one of the stupidest ideas he’s ever had because there’s no doubt in his mind that Jackson will hit him, especially given the opportunity.

“You’re not even worth it,” Jackson says, which pisses Stiles off more than anything else.

“Then maybe I’ll just tell everyone what your problem is,” he says, glancing over towards where Lydia is watching, a frown on her face, probably at Stiles’ inability to keep calm or shut his mouth.

For a second, Jackson’s eyes widen but then his fists clench and he’s coming for Stiles. Stiles thinks about holding his ground for about half a second, but he’s never been good in fights, and the gleam in Jackson’s eye tells him he’s a dead man. He takes a stumbling step back on the court, slipping on the wet pavement. 

“Knock it off.”

Derek steps in between them, and Stiles feels a rush of gratitude, followed by annoyance that someone has to help him. Gratitude wins out, though, when Jackson throws Derek a look that quite clearly states he would fight him if Derek wasn’t taller and bigger than him.

“Stop being such a dick, Jackson,” Derek says, voice calm and warning. Stiles can’t see his face, but he suspects it’s foreboding. 

Ethan walks up to Jackson and sets a hand on his shoulder, his gaze on Stiles behind Derek. His eyes flick to Derek, though.

“Let it go, man.”

Jackson ruffles himself, throwing off Ethan’s hand. “He’s not even worth it,” he mutters, turning his back. “Where’s the fucking ball?”

Stiles doesn’t care about the ball. He’s just glad he isn’t a bloody pulp on the court right now.

Derek looks back at him, opening his mouth as if he’s about to say something, but Stiles pushes past him. He doesn’t need to hear he’s stupid for picking a fight with Jackson, or letting Jackson pick one with him.

He’s cold and wet, and there’s still half a game to go before Stiles can go home, take a nice long shower, and spend the rest of the evening trying to beat the fourth level of Bioshock. So he pulls himself together as the game resumes and vows to stay out of Jackson’s warpath, at least for a little while.

*

By the time Stiles drags himself out to his jeep, he’s soaked with water and sweat, his legs burn from all the running, and he’s pretty sure the stitch in his chest is never going away. The mist has turned into large droplets of water that soak his shirt. He just wants to go home and pretend this whole day never happened.

He has never been so lucky, though, and he barely pauses as he hears someone calling his name.

“Stiles.” Derek jogs up behind him, not looking nearly as wet in his coat. 

“No,” Stiles groans as he reaches his car and turns to Derek.

“No what?”

“No, I don’t want the lecture that I should just leave Jackson alone, that his hatred of me is nothing I can control, that I should stop running my mouth off because it only fucking gets me in trouble.” He sighs. He’s heard it all before from various people. One more isn’t going to change anything.

“Jackson’s a prick,” Derek says simply and Stiles stares.

“You’re not going to defend him?”

“He’s always been one.” Derek shrugs. “Ethan isn’t much better most of the time.”

“Oh.” Stiles reaches for the door and yanks it open. “So I guess you heard.” Everyone has heard by now. How he was dumped. How he was used. This is exactly how he wanted his senior year to go.

Derek frowns. “Did you actually like Ethan?”

“No,” Stiles says, hand on the door handle, the door halfway open. He makes a face. “I don’t know. Maybe. He’s the first person who ever actually…” He stops himself quickly and clears his throat. “I should get home. I’m soaked.”

“Stiles,” Derek says, reaching out to stop him from getting in the car, but he stops himself before he touches Stiles. He hesitates as Stiles watches him, confused. Derek seems to rethink whatever he was going to say and shrugs off his jacket instead. “Here.”

Stiles just stands there as Derek presses the jacket into his hands. He isn’t entirely sure what’s happening here.

“Go dry off,” Derek says, almost gruffly, as though unsure what he’s doing himself.

“I, okay,” Stiles says finally, and Derek nods, turning and heading for his car. He stands there for another second before sliding on the jacket. It’s big and warm and it smells like Derek. Climbing into his car, Stiles takes half a second to breathe in the scent of the jacket before turning the ignition and cranking up the heater.

*

It’s probably weird, but Stiles isn’t ever going to tell anyone about this, as he curls up on his bed, one hand clenched around Derek’s jacket, pressed to his face, his other hand tight around his cock as he jerks himself off. The jacket is soft on the inside, leather or something similar on the outside, and it just smells like Derek. Not that Stiles has ever smelled Derek, but it smells like trees, rain, some kind of musky after-shave lingering faintly in the fabric.

Stiles buries his face in the jacket to stifle his moan as he comes, face hot and limbs tired. It’s been a very long day.

He’s a little embarrassed as he rolls onto his back, but no one will ever know. Fucking Derek and his fucking jacket. He doesn’t ever want to give it back, but that would probably be super weird.

Taking a deep breath, Stiles sighs at the ceiling. He can still hear the sound of the rain outside the window. It doesn’t seem like it’s going to let up soon. His dad isn’t home - out on patrol somewhere in the county. Stiles should really clean up and eat something, but he decides not to, gathering the jacket in his arms and closing his eyes instead. There’s plenty of time for that later.

*

He has a problem, Stiles thinks as he sits in his jeep, staring at the jacket scrunched up in the passenger seat. A very big problem. Around him, other people are arriving to school, but he stays in his car, trying to figure a way out of this.

Obviously, he has to give the jacket back. That’s not the issue. The issue is that he’s just spent the weekend jerking off thinking about Derek after he’s just (he won’t use the word ‘broken up’ because he and Ethan never actually dated) stopping hooking up with Ethan, his teammate, and someone Derek has been friends with a lot longer than he’s known Stiles.

Why is it Stiles who always gets himself into these kinds of things? There’s no way Derek can like him considering how much of an idiot he is.

Sighing, Stiles gazes down at the jacket, the jacket he’s come to know and love over the past few days. It doesn’t smell like Derek so much now since it’s spent so much time in Stiles’ bed. Still, he feels like he knows every stitch in the leather, the tiny hole in the left pocket that isn’t really noticeable unless you really look. He’s pathetic.

Someone pounds on his window and Stiles yelps in surprise, jumping and hitting his head on the top of the jeep. He winces and rubs his head at the bump he gets.

“Jesus Christ,” he curses at Scott standing at his window. He rolls it down. “You scared the shit out of me.”

“You were always jumpy,” Scott points out, and Stiles is too surprised to be talking to him to argue. He’s right. Scott glances in the jeep, gaze falling on the jacket. “What are you doing?”

“What do you mean?” Stiles wants to ask what Scott is doing considering they haven’t spoken in weeks.

“I mean, why are you just sitting out here? The bell’s gonna ring any minute.”

Scott has a point, but it’s unwillingly that Stiles grabs Derek’s jacket and opens the door.

“Whose is that?” Scott asks because, of course, he knows Stiles would never own a leather jacket, especially not one a size too big.

“Derek’s.”

Stiles doesn't really want to explain why he has it. Scott hasn’t wanted to talk to him in weeks, and now they’re talking about nothing that matters.

“Why do you have—”

“What do you want, Scott?” Stiles interrupts because he doesn’t really have time for small talk right now. He’s got to get Derek his jacket without doing anything stupid in the meantime. It will be quite a feat if he manages to pull it off.

Scott looks taken aback, eyebrows furrowing as he stops walking. “I was hoping you were over your douchebag phase, but I guess I asked too soon.” He speeds up and passes Stiles, missing Stiles’ mouth hanging open.

If anyone is going through a douchebag phase, it’s Scott. Why can’t he just be supportive? Why does he have to make everything so difficult?

Stiles stomps up the stairs, Scott long gone before him, and wanders the halls to his locker. He clutches the jacket in his hand. He really needs to find Derek before this morning gets worse.

The universe is just not on his side when he turns and finds Jackson standing behind him. He swears he’s going to die a premature death from people sneaking up on him.

“Just because you’ve got Derek on your side doesn’t mean you’re off the hook,” Jackson says without any preamble, voice low.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Stiles says, keeping his gaze on his math book.

“Sure you don’t,” Jackson says with an obvious look at the jacket in Stiles’ hand. “Just watch yourself, Stiles.”

Jackson says his name like a death threat, but he leaves, and Stiles lets out a breath. Maybe he needs to talk to Lydia about her either going out with him or telling him to lay off so Stiles can get through one day without glancing over his shoulder. Before he was popular, he never had that problem. Mostly because no one knew who he was. Obscurity has its perks.

He shuts his locker without taking anything out. There are college applications in there, stuffed into books, binders, that his guidance counselor has given him to look over, fill out. It’s not as easy as just writing down his name and GPA. He actually has to decide where he wants to spend the next four years of his life. He can’t even decide where he wants to spend the next weekend, let alone year.

Besides, he’s got bigger problems.

The bell rings as he leaves his locker, but he wants to find Derek first. Surprisingly, he realizes he doesn’t actually know where Derek’s locker is or what his first class is either. He’s never bothered to ask. It might just be fate that Stiles turns a corner and literally runs into Derek. He bounces back against his chest and looks up.

“Hey,” Derek says, a nice, calm greeting. Okay. Stiles can do this.

He holds out the jacket. “I brought you your jacket.” Smooth. Very smooth.

“Oh, thanks,” Derek says, taking it from him. 

“Yeah, thanks for letting me borrow it,” Stiles says, and adds, _and jerk off with it_ , silently. 

“No problem.” Derek slides it on and fits his hands in the pockets. “You looked kind of cold.”

Stiles nods. “I have a tendency not to be prepared. My dad calls it a tragic flaw, but I’d say it’s probably more because I forget things two minutes after people tell me them. So when people tell me to, ‘take a jacket, it’s cold out,’ I only remember until I leave the room.”

Derek smiles slightly. “Maybe you need more reminders.”

“What I need is to just carry everything I could possibly need with me all the time. Throw it in my jeep or something. That would solve a lot of problems.”

“Well, if you ever need a jacket,” Derek says with a shrug, and Stiles feels his face heating up, though he’s not sure why.

“Oh, uh, cool, thanks,” he says. Somewhere above them, the second bell rings. “Shit, I gotta get to class.”

“I’ll see you later,” Derek says as Stiles turns. Stiles doesn’t look back. It’s bad enough that he fucked around with Ethan, but now he might have it bad for Derek and wouldn’t that just be the icing on the perfect fucking cake of senior year?

*

Without Scott to complain to, Stiles only has one option.

“That’s a precarious position,” Lydia says when Stiles seeks her out in the library and basically lays out the facts, punctuated by worries about what to do and laments of last year when he had none of these problems.

“That’s it?” he says, laying his hands flat on the table and leaning towards her. “Precarious position?”

She pauses. “An ambiguously impugnable situation?”

“That’s redundant. And not the point.” Stiles sighs, slumping down in the uncomfortable library chair. He thinks they make them uncomfortable on purpose so people don’t fall asleep studying.

“I don’t see what the big deal is,” Lydia says. “If you like Derek, then do something about it.”

“I can’t,” Stiles says. “If I do, it’ll look like I’m just going through the guys on the team. Plus, Derek doesn’t even know what I did.”

“What did you do?”

“I lied!” he says, grabbing a pen off the table and twisting it in his fingers. “Derek thinks I’m, like, this cool popular kid when really, I’m just a loser pretending that I know about sports and partying. You and I both know I’m terrible at both!”

“Stiles, calm down,” Lydia says, reaching across the table for his hand. “First of all, you’re not a loser. And while you may not be as adept at sports and parties as other people, you have your own skills.”

“Giving head?”

A freshman at the next table looks up and goes red as she catches his eye. 

Lydia rolls her eyes and takes her hand back. “You’re a great friend.”

“Yeah,” Stiles scoffs. “To my one friend who’s not talking to me at the moment.”

“It’s not as complicated as you’re making it,” Lydia says simply. 

“Tell that to Jackson who wants to eat me for even talking to you.”

“What?”

“Never mind.” Stiles shoves a hand through his hair. “Where are you applying to college?”

Lydia pauses but seems to decide to let him change the subject. “I’ve already applied for early admission at Brown, Yale, and Columbia.”

“No San Diego State for you, huh?”

“Where’d you apply?” she asks instead of answering.

“I haven’t yet.” He sighs. “I don’t know how I’m just supposed to pick a college.”

“If you want my advice,” Lydia says, plucking the pen from his hands, “pick one that feels like home.”

Stiles just lays his head down on the table. Senior year is definitely not all it’s cracked up to be.

*

The locker room is torture these days, between the shirtless guys that Stiles can’t stare at and Ethan ignoring him on one side, Derek on the other, though he never says anything to Stiles about the jacket thing. Jackson glares at Stiles whenever possible, as though he’s done something completely offensive merely by existing.

Stiles is beginning to think that popularity is not all it’s cracked up to be.

“Halloween,” Aiden says one day as they get dressed after practice. “Party at Jackson’s?”

“Why not at your house?” Jackson asks, tossing a towel at Aiden, who dodges it easily.

“‘Cause your parents buy the good shit.”

Jackson shrugs in agreement. “Fine, whatever.”

Stiles guesses this means he’s invited too, although he doubts Jackson wants him there. Still, why pass up a chance to annoy Jackson?

“Derek,” Jackson says sharply, and Derek looks up from tying his shoelaces. “You’ll be there?”

It isn’t so much a question as an order. Stiles isn’t sure why, but he gets the feeling that somehow this is related to him, although it might be because Derek’s eyes flick to him before he responds to Jackson.

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

Jackson nods and pushes past Stiles, knocking him back against the lockers as he goes.

“Yeah, sure, I’d love to come,” Stiles mutters to himself as the rest of the team filters out. “That’s so thoughtful of you, Jackson.”

He turns to his locker and pulls out his shoes before slamming it shut.

“He just does it to prove he’s the top dog.”

Derek is still there, sitting on the bench and inspecting his shoes. Stiles joins him, tugging on his sneakers.

“He is, isn’t he?”

Derek shrugs. “Sometimes it’s easier to let him think he is.”

Stiles glances at him, suddenly aware how alone they are in the locker room. Fuck. This is exactly the kind of situation Stiles was not supposed to put himself in. He barely has enough self-control most days not to say every thought that pops into his head, not to admit his secrets because, let’s be honest, he can’t keep a secret worth his life.

“Why don’t you do something?” Stiles asks, looking away sharply. If he doesn’t look at Derek, maybe he’ll stop thinking about him naked.

“We’ve only got a few months left. Besides, college will beat it out of him real fast.”

“Right, college,” Stiles mutters. It seems to be the only thing anyone is talking about lately. He still hasn’t filled out an application, although he has decided he doesn’t want to go to school anywhere in the south, southwest, or midwest. That’s an accomplishment, right?

“So you’ll be at the party?” Derek asks as Stiles finishes tying his shoelaces and rubs his hands down his jeans.

“I guess I have to,” he says, and he wonders when it went from being excited about parties to dreading them.

“It’s not that bad,” Derek says, rising from the bench. “There’s free beer.”

Stiles smiles vaguely. “At least there’s one bright side.”

“And I’ll be there,” Derek says offhandedly as he leaves. 

Sitting on the bench, Stiles leans back against the lockers. He’s so fucked.

*

That first party at Jackson’s house seems so long ago, but Stiles is still intimidated by the towering house as he pulls up the drive. He hadn’t asked Lydia if she was going, although now that he’s here, he kind of wishes he had. It would be nice to have at least one friendly face. Sure, most of the guys on the team are friendly _enough_ but Stiles doesn’t really feel completely comfortable around them.

Stiles figures he doesn’t really have a choice, though, and he locks the jeep and heads inside. 

The party is in full-swing, but Stiles doesn’t go looking for the keg. It’s Halloween, so everyone seems even louder, rowdier, than usual, and somewhere out in town, he knows his dad is patrolling for idiot kids egging houses and smashing pumpkins.

Wandering through the house, he isn’t looking for anyone in particular, and he finds himself wishing Scott was there. With Scott, he would at least have someone to talk to.

He hadn’t thought that being popular meant being so lonely. Lydia hadn’t told him about that part.

Jackson’s house is even bigger than Stiles realized at first. It’s got three floors and every single one of them has people on it. Finding a place where someone isn’t sloshing around a cup of beer or a girl isn’t giggling in the corner is almost impossible. Stiles heads back downstairs when he finds no one he actually knows aside from Isaac chatting up a girl from another school.

Downstairs, Stiles grabs a beer from the counter and cracks it open, mostly to have something to hold onto. Leaving the kitchen, Stiles heads for the living room, but he stops as he catches sight of Ethan, Ethan and Danny, draped over each other on the couch. The groping hands are enough to make Stiles turn sharply in the opposite direction.

He supposes he should have seen it coming - there’s no way someone like Ethan would have actually wanted him. Shaking away the feeling of inadequacy, Stiles steps outside into the cool crisp air. It’s a welcome relief from the stuffy house where the thudding music throbs in his temples.

Avoiding the keg and the group bunched around it, Stiles crosses the large, well-manicured lawn, past shrubs trimmed into different shapes. He takes a swig of his beer, but it’s getting warm, and warm beer is pretty disgusting.

He shivers as he walks. Somehow, he forgot his jacket again, and his sweatshirt isn’t very thick. Moving slowly, he makes a whole turn of the back yard - and it’s a large back yard with fountains and everything - and ends up at a large tree facing the house. Light spills off the porch, but Stiles lingers outside of it.

“What are you doing?” Derek appears out of the shadows and Stiles, amazingly, doesn’t jump. “Hiding?”

“No,” he says immediately, raising his beer to his lips. “I was just… okay, yeah, hiding.”

“It’s not that terrible, is it?” Derek steps in closer to the tree. From this distance, Stiles can still hear the music from the house, but it’s muted.

“No,” Stiles says because he doesn’t want Derek to think that he’s too good for these parties because he’s not. Stiles isn’t good _enough_ for these kinds of parties. He doesn’t belong there no matter how much work Lydia has done on him. He shivers again as a cold breeze rustles the leaves of the tree.

“Not prepared, huh?” Derek asks, watching him.

“Am I ever?”

“You want to go inside?”

Stiles shakes his head. “Too many people in there.”

Derek watches him for a moment. “You want my jacket?”

“No, thanks, that’s okay,” Stiles says. He isn’t sure what having Derek’s jacket might do to him, but probably something embarrassing. Just thinking about it brings a flush to his cheeks and he’s thankful it’s dark so maybe Derek can’t see.

“You can’t just be cold,” Derek points out, but Stiles shrugs. 

“You don’t know me that well. I’m cold all the time.”

“You’re going to catch pneumonia.”

“It’s not that cold,” Stiles says, rolling his eyes. “Besides, I’ll probably leave soon.”

“If you won’t come inside, at least go to the greenhouse. It’s warm in there and quiet.”

“There’s a greenhouse?” Of course there’s a greenhouse. This backyard has everything short of a pool and the statue of Venus. 

“Jackson’s mom grows orchids.” Derek says it like it’s totally normal. “Come on. At least you’ll be warm.”

Stiles considers not going for a second, but the other option is going back inside and standing awkwardly around the punch bowl, so he follows Derek into the semi-darkness of the yard. 

They take a path laid out by stones past more shrubs, and if Stiles was expecting a small greenhouse, he’s sorely mistaken. As they walk, a shelter looms up before them, made almost entirely of glass, the foundation decorative stones. A dim light shines over the door.

“Holy shit,” Stiles says as they reach the door and Derek opens it. It is a bit warmer inside, but Stiles is too busy staring at all the orchids sitting on tables to really notice. He’s never seen so many. They’re all different colors and patterns, though it’s hard to see in the dimness. If there’s a light, Derek doesn’t turn it on.

“Better?” Derek asks and Stiles turns to him.

“I’ve never seen so many flowers in my life,” he says. “Look at that one! It’s purple, I think, and that one looks like a little duck!”

“They’re kind of cool,” Derek agrees.

Stiles realizes too late that maybe he’s being too enthusiastic about a bunch of flowers and takes a step back from examining a tiger-striped one. “Yeah, cool.” Glancing around, he isn’t sure what to do. Derek is still by the door and Stiles moves back towards him. “So…”

“You’re not really into parties, are you?” Derek asks as Stiles scratches the back of his neck nervously. Again, he’s alone with Derek. How does that keep happening?

“I just haven’t been to a lot,” Stiles admits, though he probably shouldn’t. He might be into parties if Scott was with him.

Derek nods like he understands, but Stiles isn’t sure that he does. Derek has been popular since freshman year, since his summer growth spurt that made Stiles wonder if he wasn’t completely straight. Four years later, he’s sure he’s not completely straight, and he partially blames it on Derek.

“You know, drinking isn’t the only thing to do at parties,” Derek says, and Stiles’ eyebrows furrow. Derek pauses. “I mean, that sounded really creepy.”

Stiles actually laughs, the first time all night, all day even. “It’s okay. Aren’t sports’ guys supposed to be creepy?”

“I hope not,” Derek says, frowning. He gazes at Stiles for a long moment, eyes dropping to Stiles’ mouth as Stiles bites his lip.

Stiles feels like he should say something, but his heart has started to beat faster, and before his brain can form a coherent thought, Derek’s mouth is on his. The kiss is quick, barely lingering on the end before Derek pulls back. It’s almost a question, unspoken.

Stiles can hear his heart, literally hear it in his ears, thudding loud and erratic, from just one kiss. Derek lingers back a few inches, as if waiting for him to do something. The rational side (the side Stiles almost never listens to) tells him to stop and ask why or tell Derek that he can’t. The other side (the one that always tells him to sneak onto crime scenes with Scott) says, ‘fuck it. Go for it, dude.’ The choice isn’t very hard in the moment, and Stiles pulls Derek in, arms around his neck, and kisses him.

After the initial shock, Derek isn’t hesitant at all, and Stiles doesn’t want him to be. They stumble back against the door, Stiles pressed to the glass, as Derek’s hands skim down his sides and their mouths slide against each other. Derek licks into Stiles’ mouth, biting down on his lower lip

Stiles can barely concentrate, moaning into Derek’s mouth, body arching up against his as Derek’s hands settle on his hips. He’s almost too warm now, a flush growing on his skin as they make out against the door of the greenhouse.

It’s totally different than Ethan who never really did this, never kissed him like Derek does, full of intention, desire, and maybe it’s a little sloppy, but who is Stiles to critique. He’s just glad it’s happening. 

He whimpers, probably a little too loudly, when Derek’s hips press against his and he can feel Derek’s dick through his jeans. The pressure isn’t enough against his own erection. Arching up, he catches Derek’s half-huffed groan, hand digging into the back of Derek’s neck.

“Stiles,” Derek breathes, pushing closer, crowding Stiles up against the door. His hands slide under Stiles’ shirt, fingernails grazing up his sides and Stiles whines at the touch.

Everything is hot - his body, Derek’s mouth, Derek’s hands on his skin. Stiles knows immediately that this is different, if not just from the fact that Derek doesn’t shove him down onto his knees, but keeps him pinned to the door. His hips move on their own accord, rolling up into Derek’s, and all he can think is, _dear fucking god he’s so hot_.

Their hips clash and Stiles squeaks at the friction, the unbearable tension, but Derek doesn’t touch him, and he even takes Stiles’ wrists to stop him from reaching between them and getting the job done. Stiles has never done anything like this, an almost desperate rutting between them, urgent, unforgiving. 

“Derek,” he stutters, gasping for breath between kisses, Derek’s mouth sliding against his, hot and fast, and it sends all the blood rushing to Stiles’ cock and his fingers tighten over Derek’s forearm.

Fuck, he’s not gonna make it. He’s not gonna be able to hold on, not when Derek fucking _grinds_ his hips down and his whole body shudders at the friction. Jeans were a bad choice, he decides as his cock strains and rubs against the rough fabric. Derek’s mouth slides to Stiles’ neck and that’s it.

“Shit, shit,” he curses, gasping as his hips jerk and he comes, high on the feeling of Derek pressed against him, of Derek’s cock rocking against his, rutting against his jeans. He grabs onto Derek, one hand tight around his arm, the other hooked into the waist of his jeans.

He can feel the puff of Derek’s breath against his neck, and he tries to reach down, to slide his hand between them, but Derek pushes it away.

“No, no,” he mutters, grabbing Stiles’ chin and tipping it up for a hard kiss as Derek pushes his hips into Stiles’. 

It’s a little uncomfortable now, his jeans wet and sticky, but Stiles can’t bring himself to care when Derek is making soft noises that make Stiles want to do it all over again.

Derek doesn’t let Stiles help get him off, and it isn’t long until Derek pulls out of the kiss to grit his teeth and bury his head in Stiles shoulder as he comes. Stiles feels the tremor run through Derek’s body; it makes his stomach jump excitedly.

It takes a minute for Stiles to catch his breath, and there’s definitely no way he can go back to the party now with the wet spot on his jeans, but it’s the least of his worries. Instead, a thought enters his mind, the thought that he’s just gotten off with Derek, and Derek doesn’t even know he’s been lying to him for months. The excited feeling in his stomach quickly turns to lead and he straightens up awkwardly as Derek glances at him.

“What was that?” Stiles asks even though he knows perfectly well what it was.

“Pretty obvious, wasn’t it?” Derek asks, leaning in and brushing his lips over Stiles’ jaw.

“Y-yeah,” Stiles stutters, getting lost in the feel of Derek so close. Derek smells like his jacket, and Stiles just wants to press his face to Derek’s shoulder, but he doesn’t. “I, I have to go.”

Derek pulls back. “What’s wrong?”

It’s like he can sense it or something, Stiles thinks, panic rising in his throat. What is he supposed to say? That he’s really a loser and he’s only been pretending to like sports and parties so he wouldn’t be one anymore? That the only thing he really knows about are murder scenes and video games? That despite hooking up with Ethan, he’s never actually had anyone else get him off before?

It all sounds so hideously embarrassing, so Stiles doesn’t say any of it.

“Nothing. It’s just, my dad gets weird if I’m not home on time. You know how it is with the sheriff. He’s always worried I’m being murdered or something.” Stiles smiles slightly, hoping Derek believes him. He doesn’t want Derek to think it’s because he doesn’t like him because fuck yeah he does; he just feels indescribably guilty.

“Oh,” Derek says, and Stiles hesitates. It doesn’t sound like a believing ‘oh.’

“I’ll see you on Monday?” Stiles says when Derek takes a step back from him. When Derek doesn’t say anything, Stiles gathers his courage and kisses him. It lasts a few seconds, just long enough to tug at Stiles’ resolve not to say anything, but he pulls away and reaches for the door.

Back in the cold, Stiles shivers and stuffs his hands in his pockets. He isn’t entirely sure what just happened, but he hopes he hasn’t ruined it by not telling Derek the truth. Derek won’t even want to be with him if he knows, though, so Stiles trudges back through the gardens and avoids the house to get to his car. He did the right thing, he tells himself as he climbs in the jeep and revs the engine. Everyone’s better off not knowing the truth. Himself included.

*

Somehow, Stiles manages to avoid Derek most of Monday - not because he _wants_ to avoid him, but Stiles doesn’t know what he’ll say if Derek asks about the party. An answer won’t be simple, and Stiles would like to avoid those questions if possible. On the other hand, he does want to see Derek and, you know, maybe kiss him again? He’s not sure Derek will want to after the other night, though.

In English class, Lydia pokes Stiles in the back after the teacher sets them to finishing a questionnaire. 

“Why are you acting weird?” she asks, keeping her voice low even though they can work together.

“I’m not acting weird,” he says, but it’s a bald-faced lie and they both know it.

“What happened?”

“Nothing happened.” On Lydia’s arched eyebrow, he sighs and leans in closer. “I don’t know what to tell Derek.”

“About what?”

“About who I really am.”

Lydia frowns. “And who is that?”

“A spazzy friendless loser who has probably spent more time in the back of a cop car than the people in jail.”

“Your dad is the sheriff,” she points out calmly. 

“But Derek thinks I’m this cool, normal, lacrosse-playing guy,” Stiles says without listening to her. It’s irrelevant that his dad is the sheriff. “And he’d never like me if he knew the truth.”

“Don’t you think you might be underestimating Derek a little? What makes you think he’s so shallow?”

“It’s not shallow,” Stiles argues. “Cool people don’t like losers. It’s a proven fact.”

“Where are you getting your statistics? ‘90s teen comedies?”

Stiles sighs. “Besides, even if I do tell him, he’ll know I lied, that I lied to him, and then he’ll hate me.”

Lydia pauses and then smiles, shaking her head. “Oh, Stiles, you’ve got it bad.”

“That is so not helpful.” Stiles crosses his arms and pouts. At least she could give him some advice.

“I don’t know what you want me to say. You’ve got to talk to him eventually, and you might even have to tell him the truth.”

It isn’t the advice he wants to hear, but it is advice. Dissatisfied, Stiles turns around in his chair and stares at the questions written on the board. Lydia is right. He’ll have to talk to Derek eventually, and it’ll be better if he takes charge of the situation, as much as he can anyway.

*

After school, Stiles goes looking for Derek. They don’t have lacrosse practice for once, but that means that Stiles has no idea where Derek might be. He doesn’t know if Derek does anything else after school or even where he lives. Come to think of it, he doesn’t know much about Derek at all. Maybe that’s something he should have thought about before they got off at Jackson’s party.

It’s sheer luck that Stiles rounds the corner and almost runs headlong into Derek coming out of the library. 

“Derek, hey,” he says jerkily, catching himself before he smacks into him. 

“Hi,” Derek replies, shoving a book in his bag and barely glancing at Stiles.

“Where are you going?” Stiles asks, wishing Lydia had given him pointers on this part, but talking to guys had never been part of the curriculum.

“Home,” Derek says, almost a question, like it should be obvious.

Stiles falls into step with Derek, wracking his brain for what to say next, how to explain his actions at the party.

“So, about the other night,” he says as they reach the front doors and Derek pushes them open. Puddles have formed on the pavement and Stiles jumps over a big one at the bottom of the stairs. “When I left, it really was because of my dad and curfew and stuff because I really do think you’re really hot and, you know, maybe if there’s ever a next time, it won’t be at Jackson’s house ‘cause that was a little weird—”

“Stiles,” Derek interrupts as they reach Derek’s car. “It’s okay.”

“It is? I mean, it is, right,” Stiles mutters, a wave of relief washing over him as they pause by the car. Overhead, the skies are dark grey and heavy with more rain to come. 

“Shit happens. People hook up. It’s no big deal.”

“What?” Stiles is confused by the way Derek isn’t looking directly at him, hitching his bag on his shoulder. 

“You don’t have to get weird about it,” Derek says with a shrug. “If you just want to forget it—”

“No, no, no,” Stiles says, cutting him off, shaking his head. “I don’t want to do that.”

Derek merely raises an eyebrow and Stiles makes a face. Why is this so hard? It’s like the universe wants him to tell Derek the truth, if only for its own amusement.

Stiles doesn’t know what to say, so he does the next best thing. Dropping his backpack on the ground - and of course, it lands in a puddle - he grabs Derek’s shirt and kisses him.

Derek’s hands remain at his side, but Stiles pushes closer, hands bunched in the soft fabric of his sweatshirt, praying for Derek to respond, to do something other than stand there and make him feel like an idiot. After a moment, Stiles has to pull back, a hard lump of disappointment rising in his throat, but as he moves, Derek’s hand comes up, catching him, pressing against the small of his back.

Derek’s mouth opens to Stiles this time, for the second kiss, and Stiles shivers at the scrape of Derek’s five o’clock shadow against his jaw. Derek’s mouth is warm and soft, tongue sliding against his, teeth pulling at his bottom lip.

They’re leaned up against Derek’s car, Derek’s hand keeping Stiles pressed against him, not that Stiles is thinking of ever leaving this position. He unwrinkles his hands from Derek’s shirt even though it’s warm compared to the cold air and slides them down, slowly, almost afraid that Derek might not let him. He hadn’t on Saturday.

Derek doesn’t stop him this time, using his free hand to tilt Stiles chin upward as he deepens the kiss and Stiles whimpers, undignified, but fuck that. He’s kissing Derek, the hottest guy in school, a guy he hadn’t even thought swung that way a year ago. Now he’s got him pressed up against a car, hands inches away from sliding into his jeans and getting a hold of his cock.

A noise in the distance brings Stiles back to his senses. They’re standing in the middle of the school parking lot and he can feel rain beginning to fall. He’s not really interested in getting soaked again, even if it might mean getting to take home Derek’s sweatshirt.

“Wait,” he says, pulling out of the kiss, breathing hard and licking his lips. Derek looks a little winded too, the apples of his cheeks a shade darker than normal. “We can’t do this here.”

Derek blinks and glances around. “You’re right.” Without taking his hand off Stiles’ back, he reaches for the backseat handle and pulls open the door. “Get in.”

‘The backseat?’ Stiles wants to ask, but he also doesn’t care if it means Derek will keep rubbing tiny circles against the fabric of his shirt. Instead, he climbs in ahead of Derek, maneuvering to the other side as Derek follows and the door swings shut behind him.

Derek doesn’t wait to explain, crawling over and kissing Stiles, pushing his knees down, wiggling until Stiles is on his back on the seat with Derek in between his legs. Rain hits the top of the car, harder now, dribbling down the windows. Stiles doesn’t give a shit about the rain, not with Derek’s tongue in his mouth, Derek’s thighs pressed to his. 

It’s hotter than almost anything Stiles has ever done, and that includes the other night at the party. Derek’s body is warm and solid above his and he lets Stiles bite at his mouth, trying to get as close as he possibly can, to never forget this. If, after Derek finds out the truth, Stiles has only his hand for comfort, it’ll be these memories he uses. He wants to preserve every minute in his mind.

Derek’s hands shove under his shirt, but they don’t take it off. Instead, they glide over his skin, smoothly, softly, until Stiles whines and reaches for Derek’s waist. He wants to feel Derek’s skin, to press his fingers to the taut muscles of his lower back.

He doesn’t really get that far, though, when Derek pulls out of the kiss and slides his tongue down Stiles’ neck. It does something to Stiles that he can’t really explain, makes his toes curl and his dick throb in his jeans. He forgets his quest for Derek’s skin, instead gripping his waist and making embarrassing noises as Derek sucks a hickey into his neck. That’s gonna be hard to hide.

His prick feels like it’s going to explode if someone doesn’t do something soon. Getting off in his jeans isn’t something he really wants to do again no matter how good it felt at the time. It had been a long, uncomfortable drive home the other night. 

He isn’t sure how much time Derek spends on his neck, but it’s long enough that he’s panting, eyes closed, mouth open. They’re both still fully-clothed and Stiles doesn’t know how that’s possible considering how fucking hard he is. The only release he gets is the occasional press of Derek’s hips. He knows Derek is hard too, he can feel it, but Derek doesn’t make any moves to actually get him off, not until he pulls away from Stiles’ neck and blows on the mark.

Stiles shudders and opens his eyes. “Holy shit,” he breathes. If Derek isn’t careful, he’s going to come in his pants. Again.

Derek doesn’t reply, eyes flicking to Stiles for half a second before he shimmies down. It’s a bit of a tight fit in the backseat of Derek’s car, but Derek pushes Stiles knees aside, spreads them before him. Stiles should feel exposed, but he only gets harder at the sight of Derek between his legs. Admittedly, he’s never had sex with anyone and the thought both intrigues and terrifies him.

He tries to shift as Derek reaches for his jeans, unzipping them quickly. His heart climbs into his throat a second before he realizes what Derek is going to do. It’s something Stiles did for Ethan more than a few times but he never got one in return. That, if anything, makes him nervous as Derek tugs his jeans down just enough to get his cock out.

“You don’t have to—” he says, barely able to form coherent words let alone protest something he really wants to do.

Derek glances up, a spark in his eyes as he reaches for Stiles’ cock and slides it out of its denim confines. 

“Okay, yeah,” Stiles agrees without Derek saying anything.

“Yeah?” Derek asks, sounding amused, and Stiles nods his head.

“Yeah,” he breathes again. He can’t believe this is actually happening. Ethan never even bothered. 

The slide of Derek’s mouth over his prick makes Stiles’ toes curl, fingers gripping the seat cushion as his mind goes blank of all rational thought. All he knows is that Derek’s mouth is heaven and getting a blowjob is just as good, if not better, than giving one. It’s hot and wet and the pressure around his cock makes Stiles whine and stutter out something stupid, something about Derek being so hot and _fuckdon’tstopdon’teverstop_.

Derek is clearly good at this, Stiles thinks vaguely, biting his bottom lip and trying not to push his hips into Derek’s mouth, but Derek’s hands are steady on his hips, keeping him in place no matter what he might try.

Stiles knows it won’t take long, mostly because he’s a teenager, but also because Derek’s mouth is the hottest fucking thing he has ever experienced and no one would be able to hold on long with Derek sucking them off. His hand goes to Derek’s head, pushing into his dark hair as he keens upward, the last shreds of self-control crumbling with Derek’s tongue sweeping over the head of his cock and then taking him in deeper.

“Oh, fuck, fuck!” he says as the pressure explodes and he comes, heat blurring his vision, mind hazy as he feels the sharp twist to his stomach and then the blissful release.

Derek doesn’t pull back, licking Stiles clean until Stiles can only make vague noises and gasp for air. Jesus Christ, that was hot. He’s never imagined it could be like that.

At the rustle of movement, Stiles opens his eyes. Derek tucks his dick back inside his jeans and pulls himself up, moving gingerly, and Stiles can see the bulge in his jeans.

He feels exhausted, but Stiles forces himself to move, scooting over closer to Derek and reaching for his fly. Derek says nothing as Stiles slides down the zipper and pushes his hand underneath. Derek’s cock is bigger than Stiles imagined, hard and thick as he strokes it. A thrill runs through him when Derek groans, burying his face in Stiles’ shoulder. Encouraged, Stiles moves faster. He can totally get Derek off. He’s determined to. After what Derek just did for him, he owes it to Derek to give as good as he gets.

“Stiles,” Derek murmurs, hips pushing up into Stiles’ grip. Stiles turns his head to look at Derek, but Derek’s mouth is there, capturing his in a hard kiss that makes Stiles dick stir interestedly again.

Stiles moves his hand faster, listening to the sharp changes in Derek’s breathing, the stuttered nature of the kisses as Derek’s hips urge him faster. 

It’s amazing, Stiles thinks, as Derek pulls out of the kiss to grit his teeth and curse under his breath, that Stiles can do this to someone, someone who isn’t going to ignore him afterwards. Or at least, he doesn’t think Derek will do that. It’s all so different than with Ethan, but then again, Ethan isn’t exactly the best stick to measure against.

“God,” Derek grunts, hands pressed against the seat as Stiles jerks him off. 

Stiles wants him to come. He wants to see it on his hand, on the jeans. He wants to know he did that.

He isn’t disappointed when Derek’s hips jerk a minute later and he feels the come on his hand, wet and slick sliding over Derek’s prick as Derek curses again, eyes closed and mouth open.

Stiles slows his hand when Derek’s breathing starts to even out and he opens his eyes. Removing his hand, Stiles isn’t sure what to wipe it on. Derek doesn’t seem bothered, gazing at Stiles now, something warm in his eyes.

“What?” Stiles asks when he notices, choosing to wipe his hand off on a piece of paper he finds on the floor. 

Derek smiles slightly. “Don’t you have a curfew to be getting home to?”

“Funny,” Stiles says, but then pauses. “Although I do have homework.”

Derek laughs, leaning over and kissing Stiles. It’s a little unexpected and something warm and fuzzy stirs in Stiles as he does it. He pulls back and reaches for the handle, pushing the door open for Stiles. “Go do your homework.”

Stiles hesitates for a moment but he figures, why ruin a good thing? Zipping up his jeans, he rolls out of the car into the rain. His bag is soaked, sitting in its puddle, but he picks it up and glances back at Derek.

“I’ll see you later.”

Derek nods. “Yeah.”

Turning, Stiles heads for his car. His happiness is tempered by the dull ache of guilt he feels as he sits in his car and watches Derek drive away some minutes later. He can’t keep it a secret forever.

*

As awesome as it is to actually hook up with Derek, Stiles knows it’s too good to last. He’s just waiting for the other shoe to drop, as it always has in his life when something starts to go right. Stiles is not a pessimist, but it’s a fact that whenever things start going well, something terrible happens.

In the locker room, Stiles pulls on his padding, hardly listening to the conversations going on around him. His attention is on Derek and his shorts, or rather his ass. Derek turns and catches him staring. Flushing, Stiles looks away quickly, but Derek just smiles slightly and says nothing.

Behind Stiles, Aiden nudges Ethan. Ethan meets his glance and nods.

“Stiles,” he says, and Stiles has to look away from Derek, fumbling with his helmet. “Watch your defense out there today.”

“Okay,” Stiles agrees.

“You nearly lost the last match,” Aiden adds, casually, but there’s an undercurrent of something darker. “Falling like you did.”

“It was muddy.” Stiles had come off the last game covered in mud. He’d had to shower twice to even get clean enough to go home. 

“And it’s shit like that that loses games,” Jackson pipes in, always up for a chance to jump on Stiles.

“It was an accident,” Stiles says, unsure why they’re doing this. He has played games before and accidents happen. After the whole gun incident, which Stiles prefers not to think about, the guys haven’t really said much, but maybe they’ve just been biding their time. The thought isn’t reassuring and Stiles glances between the three.

“If you have any more accidents today, I’ll make sure you never play again,” Jackson says, smacking Stiles with his stick as he passes.

“Knock it off, Jackson,” Derek says from behind Stiles.

Jackson turns, a sneer on his lips. “It’s nice you’ve taken on the guard dog role, Derek. Maybe your puppy won’t stray too far out of bounds today.”

“And maybe you’ll actually score a point today if you pull your head out of your ass and stop trying to impress Lydia,” Derek says, grabbing his helmet and ignoring Jackson’s glare. “So let’s get on the field.”

Derek leaves the locker room and Stiles doesn’t hesitate to follow. He doesn’t want to be left alone with Jackson. 

“How about you just punch him?” Stiles suggests as they head towards the field. “I think that might help.”

“It’d just make him worse.”

Stiles still thinks it’s a good idea, but he doesn’t say it again. Instead, he hesitates at the entrance to the field.

Derek stops and glances back.

Stiles doesn’t know how he’s supposed to let Derek defend him when Derek thinks he’s defending an equal when really, Stiles is the guy Derek never even looked at before this year. No one had noticed him before this year. He’s letting Derek waste his energy on him.

“What?” Derek asks when Stiles doesn’t speak, staring out at the field. He can hear the rest of the team coming up behind him. 

“Nothing,” he says finally, shrugging his shoulders and putting on a smile. “I’m fine.”

Derek doesn’t look like he quite believes him, but Stiles keeps his smile on and knocks Derek’s stick with his playfully. 

“Let’s go.” He goes out first, heading for the field and pushing aside his feelings of guilt. There’s a game to win, after all, and he better or else Jackson might actually murder him. He wouldn’t put it past him.

*

Stiles pokes at his lunch, not entirely sure that the pizza isn’t made of cardboard. As he frowns at his plate, he can feel someone watching him, and it isn’t until he looks up that he realizes hardly anyone is talking. 

Ethan watches him from across the table. Beside him, Jackson looks like a cat waiting to pounce on a mouse. Stiles gets the feeling that he’s the mouse.

“You said you went here last year?” Ethan asks, and Stiles is confused.

“What?”

“At the beginning of the year, you said you were here last year.”

“Uh, yeah,” Stiles agrees. He isn’t sure where this is going, although he doubts anywhere good. Beside him, Derek puts down his drink as though preparing for something.

“Who’d you hang out with?”

Stiles pauses. “Scott. Scott McCall.”

“Isn’t that the kid who flunked Freshman English?” The guys at the table laugh but Stiles doesn’t.

“He didn’t fail.” Stiles is the one who almost failed, but thanks to Scott, he made it through with a C. He doesn’t point that out, though. They don’t need to know that.

“No, wait,” Aiden says. “Scott’s the one that went to the nurse with his watch stuck in his zipper ‘cause he was jerking off in the bathroom.”

Stiles can’t really argue that - it was not one of Scott’s finer moments, and even though Stiles had laughed at him at the time, other people don’t get to laugh, but the guys at the table do.

“It’s not funny,” he says, but no one listens.

“He’s such a loser,” Ethan says and Aiden and Jackson nod in agreement.

“He’s not a loser,” Stiles says before he can stop himself. He doesn’t care that Scott is currently not speaking to him or that they might be barely friends anymore. Scott has always been his best friend and he’s not going to let anyone say that about him.

Ethan arches an eyebrow and leans in across the table. “Where is he right now?”

Stiles frowns. “I don’t know.” He glances around, but Ethan laughs.

“He’s not at this table; therefore, he’s a loser.”

Stiles stops looking for Scott. Ethan’s right. He hates to admit it. As he sits there, he feels Derek’s hand slide to his leg, discreet, a warm pressure that should make him feel better, but if anything, it makes him feel worse. Turning back to the table, he grabs his pizza and takes a bite. It tastes like cardboard but it tastes like cardboard at the good table.

*

Stiles is a shithead. Completely. He doesn’t even know what he was thinking. It’s taken him five months but now he gets why Scott was mad.

Stiles looks for Scott after school but he doesn’t see him. He doesn’t know what he’d say anyway - “Hey, sorry I was a dick. You were right the whole time”? He doesn’t even deserve Scott’s forgiveness.

At his car, he’s surprised to find Derek waiting for him, leaning against the passenger side door. 

“Hey,” Derek says as Stiles reaches him. 

“Hi.” Stiles fiddles with the keys. He should be happy to see Derek, but he feels like a complete douchebag and talking to anyone makes him tired. 

“Where are you going?”

“Home,” Stiles says, but he doesn’t unlock the car yet. “I just want to forget today ever happened.” He’ll go home, make food, and spend the rest of the evening watching movies alone. His dad isn’t home and probably won’t be until late which means a very quiet house. Usually, it bothers Stiles, but it will be a welcome change today.

“Ethan’s a dick.”

Stiles laughs briefly. “Yeah, I got that.” He feels a tiny bit better as he watches Derek. Derek doesn’t seem like he quite knows what he’s doing, trying to cheer him up, like it’s out of his comfort zone. It’s kind of adorable. He hesitates, glancing at his car. “D’you want to come over maybe?” he asks despite wanting to be alone two seconds ago. Now he wants to be with Derek.

“To your house?”

“Yeah.” Stiles smiles. “My dad’s out on patrol and we could order pizza, the good stuff, not like here.”

“Yeah, okay,” Derek agrees with a casual shrug. He doesn’t sound excited, but Stiles catches the slight twitch in his fingers as he opens the door.

They drive to Stiles’ house and Stiles gets more and more nervous as they get closer. He’s never actually had someone over except Scott and Lydia when she woke him up at six AM over the summer. He’s never had, like, a date at home.

“This is it,” he says as he opens the door. It’s not a mansion like Jackson’s house, just a small three bedroom house in the suburbs. 

“It’s nice,” Derek says, but Stiles suspects he says it out of politeness. 

Dumping his bag behind the couch, Stiles kicks off his shoes. “You want anything to drink? What kind of pizza do you like?”

Derek shrugs. “Whatever’s fine.”

“You’re making my job as a hostess difficult,” Stiles says with a smile, digging his phone out of his pocket and hitting speed dial for the pizza place. 

“Sorry,” Derek apologizes, glancing around the living room and finally taking a seat on the couch. 

Stiles orders the pizza - pepperoni and mushroom - and flops down next to Derek. For a moment, it’s awkward and he doesn’t know what to say. He’s never had a guy over.

“You want to watch a movie or something?” he asks finally. 

Derek pauses, glancing at the mess of DVDs piled around the base of the TV. “Is that BioShock?”

Stiles eyes go wide. He’d forgotten about the video games. “I don’t really play,” he says quickly. “Someone just got it for me, as a gift. Video games are so lame.”

Derek arches an eyebrow but sits back on the couch. “A movie’s fine.”

Relieved, Stiles grabs one off the stack and pops it in the player. He doesn't even know which one it is. He crawls back on the couch, a little surprised when Derek’s arm slides behind him, resting easily on his shoulders. It takes him a second to relax, but he does, sliding down, propping his feet on the coffee table and leaning against Derek. Like this, he can pretend that everything is okay.

*

The pizza is mostly gone and Stiles can feel himself drifting off even though the movie isn’t that long. Derek’s body is warm against his, comfortable and easy. He feels Derek’s fingers carding through his hair, fingers brushing the back of his neck. 

“Stiles,” Derek says as the credits begin to play on the screen. Stiles jerks himself awake, blinking and rubbing his face.

“I’m awake,” he says, pushing himself more upright. “Today’s just been really long.”

“Yeah,” Derek agrees, though Stiles isn’t sure he completely understands. 

“You wanna watch something else?” Stiles asks, pushing the pizza box away on the table. “Or do you have to get home?”

“I don’t have to get home,” Derek says. “But I can think of something we can do other than watch movies.”

“Oh.” Stiles eyes widen slightly, but he shouldn’t be surprised at this point. It’s just weird that someone wants to do that with him. “Yeah, we could do that. You wanna do it here, or we could go to my room or…” He’s just rambling at this point because he’s never had a guy in his house, a guy that wants to make out with him and possibly see him naked. They still haven’t gotten that far, but Stiles has a sneaking suspicion that it might happen today.

“Your room,” Derek says, and he doesn’t sound nearly as nervous as Stiles feels. Then again, he probably has a lot more experience than Stiles does.

“Okay,” Stiles agrees, stumbling off the couch less than gracefully. Derek follows, much more coordinated as he steps over Stiles shoes and follows him upstairs.

Stiles room isn’t exactly clean, and he grimaces as they step in. Books are piled on the desk - clearly unread, stacks of looseleaf paper that need to go in a binder scattered on top. Clothes litter the floor and his bed is unmade. Hastily, Stiles yanks the comforter up and hopes Derek isn’t some kind of clean freak. There are college brochures on the floor by the bed where Stiles has been reading through them at night. He still has no idea where he wants to go and time is running out to decide.

Derek doesn’t comment on the state of the room as he enters, glancing around vaguely before his attention focuses on Stiles. 

Stiles knows what they came up here to do, vaguely, but that doesn’t make him any less nervous, excited, too eager, so he bites his lip and doesn’t say anything. Luckily for him, Derek moves first, pulling off his shirt, and for the first time, Stiles gives himself permission to stare at Derek’s body.

“You have a tattoo?” he asks suddenly, catching sight of a lick of ink around on his back. He takes a step forward and turns Derek around so he can stare at the wolf’s head across his lower back. “When did you get that?” He’s fairly sure he’s never seen it in all his staring.

“Last week. I turned eighteen so I got it done.”

“I missed your birthday?” Stiles is so unobservant.

Derek shakes his head. “I didn’t tell anybody. Don’t worry.”

“But we should have done something.” Stiles frowns, but he’s distracted when Derek reaches for his shirt and tugs it up. He lifts his arms and it slides over his head.

Being half-naked with Derek is nothing new - they do it in practice all the time - but doing it alone, in his room, with Derek is completely different. He’s not used to Derek’s eyes on him, grazing down his chest to his stomach, the trail of hair disappearing under his jeans. His stomach jumps excitedly.

“Don’t worry about it,” Derek repeats himself, pulling Stiles closer by his belt, leaning down to kiss him slowly. “Birthdays aren’t a big deal in my family.”

Birthdays are a huge deal to Stiles, but he lets Derek distract him with soft, slow kisses that stir the heat in his cock. It’s easy to let Derek take control and nudge him over to the bed. They almost fall onto it, springs creaking ominously at the unexpected weight.

Finally, Stiles gets to feel Derek’s skin, to slide his hands over his shoulders, dig his fingers into Derek’s waist as Derek shifts and repositions them so they’re both on the bed completely. For a moment, everything happens quickly - Stiles jeans are pulled down, pushed to the floor. Stiles gets his hands on Derek’s zipper and yanks it down. Derek shimmies out of them, kicking them off. His mouth covers Stiles’ in hot, rough kisses that make Stiles almost forget the position they’re in until Derek’s hand presses into his dick, gripping him through the fabric of his underwear.

Shit. This is really happening, he thinks, pulling away from Derek’s mouth with a gasp.

“Derek,” he says, swallowing and looking down at Derek’s hand cupping his erection. He wants to tell him to go slow or at least that he’s never done this before, but he doesn’t want Derek to think he’s scared. He’s not scared but he is a little nervous. “Do you have…” he says instead because he can’t bring himself to admit it.

His dad’s safe sex talk rings in his head, though he wishes his dad’s voice wasn’t in there right now. 

Derek moves back, reaching for his jeans and pulling out his wallet. There’s a condom there and Stiles manages to refrain from making a stupid joke about always being prepared. It’s all so real, and he can feel his fingers shaking as he rolls over to grab lube out of his bottom drawer. He keeps it there, as if it’ll somehow hide it from his dad, but he’s probably not fooling anyone.

Stiles pulls Derek’s mouth back to his, trying to hide his nerves in deep, sweeping kisses that leave him breathless. Derek doesn’t protest or pull away but follows the movements of Stiles’ tongue. Eventually, he slides his hands up Stiles’ arms, pressing them back against the bed. Stiles likes it this way, trapped beneath Derek. He could get away if he wanted, but Stiles doesn’t want to.

Derek kisses him thoroughly, until Stiles is panting for more, pushing up into him, body hot all over, cheeks flushed, his cock throbbing and completely hard. He pulls his arms from Derek’s grip, sliding into his hair, arching his body up just as Derek grinds down. The shot of pleasure that races through him makes him groan.

Derek pulls back, though, and reaches for Stiles’ underwear. Panic sparks in him for a second as Derek pulls them off. It isn’t like Derek has seen his cock before, but being so exposed is something new. 

Stiles doesn’t say anything, though, biting his lip and staring down as Derek takes off his own boxers. Then they’re both naked and it’s better than Stiles ever imagined it. Sure, he’s watched tons of porn, but watching naked people and actually seeing one in real life is totally different. This is really going to happen. Stiles hasn’t just imagined it.

Light streams in through his window, weak rays of sunlight pushing through clouds. The room is a little chilly, but Stiles feels hot. He’s very glad when Derek doesn’t stop to ask him questions. Instead, Derek nudges his legs up and tears open the condom.

Stiles’ heart is stuck in his throat and he takes a difficult breath. He’s heard horror stories about first times, about blood and pain and things he doesn’t think he can handle. Derek moves slowly, though, flipping the lube open and spreading it on his fingers.

The first press makes Stiles’ stomach jump, nervous, excited. The pressure is light at first, but it grows and Stiles makes a face as it becomes more uncomfortable. Still, though, he keeps his mouth shut. Derek doesn’t need to know that he’s still a virgin at almost eighteen. 

Derek adds a second finger, moving them back and forth in his ass. It hurts but it’s not too bad. There’s a bit of a stretch, a tiny bit of a burn, but it feels good when Derek moves his fingers in and out, brushing against the muscles.

He feels Derek’s eyes on him and he looks down - he’s been staring at the ceiling, focusing on not freaking out. Derek doesn’t speak but adds a third finger. Stiles would call it overkill, but he doesn’t want to go too fast or hurry Derek along. This speed is just fine, especially when he gasps at the sharp press of something deep inside him, something that sets his nerves on fire. 

He can’t help the gasp, the curse under his breath at the feeling washing over him. If this is what sex feels like, he’s going to like it. 

After a minute, Derek slides his fingers out and he slides his body in against Stiles’. His hands slide up the back of Stiles’ thighs as he pushes them up. Stiles’ breath stutters when Derek leans in and kisses him. There’s something different about this one, something reassuring and soft.

Pulling away, Derek reaches for his own cock, slicking it with lube and positioning himself.

Stiles closes his eyes and grits his teeth at the first push of Derek’s prick, bigger than his fingers, fuller. He isn’t sure his body can even endure the stretch, but he’s going to try. For a while, there’s only pain, stretching and a slight burn that makes him think of pouring hydrogen peroxide on cuts. 

Derek stops moving about halfway in and Stiles forces his eyes open. He catches Derek watching him, silent and steady, as though waiting for him to say something, to tell him to stop. Stiles doesn’t want to stop. He just wants to make the pain go away.

Swallowing thickly, Stiles takes a breath. He can do this. He isn’t nearly as hard as he was, but it’s the least of his worries. It takes a few minutes, but the pain starts to recede and he can breathe easier. He watches Derek’s face, the mask of control, though he can see his chest moving faster, the flutter of his eyelashes when he blinks.

“Come on,” Stiles says once he doesn’t feel so much pain. He wants to do this.

Derek glances at him, a momentary hesitation, but then he pushes in.

“Fuck,” Stiles says at the movement, the tingling burn that follows, but it’s not terrible. It almost feels good when Derek changes the angle and slides his cock back in. Stiles feels full, stretched, hot, and on edge as Derek moves inside him.

Above him, Derek looks so hot. Stiles traces the lines of his muscles, down to where their bodies connect. He lets his hands run over Derek’s body, gripping the back of his thigh at the sharp change in angle, the one that sends the same wave of pleasure through him, unexpected.

Leaning forward, Derek reaches for Stiles’ cock, stroking him slowly, bringing it back to full attention. Between Derek’s hand and the heat curling through his stomach, Stiles is beginning to think he really fucking likes sex. 

Derek comes first, shutting his eyes as his hips slide in, movements stuttering, a soft breath and Stiles’ name on his tongue. Stiles likes hearing his name that way. He likes the way Derek presses into him, hips still moving as he comes down.

Derek’s hand on Stiles’ dick grips almost too tightly, but he lets up a second later. He’s breathing hard but he keeps going, jerking Stiles off. Stiles can only feel the throb in his ass, the heat building in his cock until he can’t hold on, can’t do anything but come apart in Derek’s hands.

“Shit, shit,” he curses, grabbing onto the comforter, wrinkling it in his grip. He’s pretty sure he’s never come so hard before, not even that time with Derek’s jacket. 

Derek smooths his hand down his cock one last time before he moves back, sliding out and letting Stiles’ legs down. He flops onto the bed next to Stiles, and Stiles doesn’t know what to do. This is all very new. 

After a minute of silence in which Stiles stares at the ceiling and tries to come to terms with the fact that he totally just had sex, Derek turns towards him, propping his head in his hand. 

“How was it?”

“It was fucking amazing,” Stiles says without thinking, smiling stupidly at Derek.

“Okay for a first time?”

Stiles takes a sharp breath. “How’d you--”

“Guessed,” Derek says. “You should have said something.”

“I didn’t want to be a--”

“Loser?” Derek interrupts, and Stiles frowns. He doesn’t want to agree, so he turns towards Derek too, running his hand down his stomach. 

“It was good,” he says instead. “Really fucking good.” He presses a kiss to Derek’s lips. “In fact, I think we should do it again, a lot.”

Derek rolls his eyes, but he moves, pushing Stiles onto his back, chests pressed together. “Maybe we will.”

Stiles doesn’t stifle his grin as Derek kisses him.

*

Life is totally different after sex. Okay, so it’s not but it totally feels like it to Stiles. The sun is brighter. Birds are louder, happier. Even Jackson’s dark glares don’t bother him as much after that day. It isn’t like he and Derek are holding hands in school or making out against the lockers or anything like that. Stiles doesn’t think Derek is that kind of person really. But he catches Derek watching him, and Stiles can’t help smiling whenever he thinks about it.

“You totally did it, didn’t you?” Lydia asks in class a few days later when Stiles still hasn’t stopped being amazed at how beautiful the rain is.

“Did what?” he asks, trying to stop smiling.

“The nasty with Derek,” she says, and Stiles is taken aback. 

“Lydia!” He’s never expected to hear those words coming out of her mouth. She’s always been so sweet, except for that whole bootcamp director thing she had going last summer.

She merely smirks and lowers her voice, not that anyone is paying them any attention. They’re supposed to be working on group projects.

“Does that mean you’ve officially been accepted as part of the group and can drop your ridiculous charade?”

“I can’t do that,” Stiles says. “I’m pretty sure Derek is the only one who likes me. The rest just tolerate me now.”

“So you can stop.”

“Aren’t you listening?” He sighs. “If they knew, they’d kick me off the team in a second. Derek would stop talking to me.”

“I think you may be exaggerating slightly.” Lydia flips her hair over her shoulder. “Popularity isn’t life or death.”

“Not to you,” Stiles muttered.

Lydia cocks her head to the side, eyes narrowing slightly. “What does that mean?”

“You’re already popular. Guys like you and you have lots of friends. You don’t have to pretend to be someone else so people like you. You’re smart and pretty. It’s so easy for you.”

“You think it’s easy for me?”

“It totally is,” Stiles says, gesturing at her. “You could date anybody. Jackson’s ready to kill for you at a moment’s notice. You get invited to every party. You’ve got it so easy.”

Lydia seems upset as she sits back, crossing her arms over her stomach. “Just so you know, Stiles, being popular isn’t easy for anyone. Even me.”

“Right,” he agrees. “‘Cause you agreeing to help me could have totally ruined your reputation. I get that.”

“No.” She frowns and shakes her head. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Which I really appreciate,” Stiles says. “Without you, Derek wouldn’t even know who I was. No one would.”

“Stiles,” she says slowly, but Stiles shakes his head. 

“I just have to keep up appearances,” he says, more to himself than anything. “So no one suspects. It’s already November. A few more months and I can leave school popular, not a pathetic nerd.”

“Stiles,” Lydia says again, but Stiles grabs his book and opens it. 

“We should get started on this project.”

*  
“Ow,” Stiles grumbles as he hits the ground, a sharp pain in his shoulder as Jackson slams into him. He should he used to it by now, but it still hurts, and he winces as he pushes himself up.

“Want me to kill him?” Derek asks as he jogs past Stiles.

Stiles smiles but shakes his head. “We need him for defense.”

Derek shrugs like it doesn’t make a difference and keeps jogging down the field. Stiles moves to catch up and Ethan appears beside him.

“Hooking up with Derek now, huh?” he asks, and Stiles isn’t sure he should reply considering words only get him into trouble most of the time. “Sure move quick.”

Stiles frowns. “You dumped me and got back together with Danny a week later.”

“So who’s next?” Ethan asks, clearly ignoring him. “Isaac? Is your goal to get through everyone by the end of the year?”

“What?” That’s the most ridiculous thing Stiles has ever heard. Last year, he couldn’t even get one person to look at him, let alone make people think he wanted to sleep with the whole lacrosse team.

“Better watch out or you’ll get a reputation, and not the kind you want,” Ethan says, jogging ahead and leaving Stiles frowning behind him.

When Derek comes back past, he pauses at Stiles’ expression. “What happened?”

“Nothing,” Stiles says. He feels like he says is a lot, especially lately. 

“I wasn’t kidding about Jackson,” Derek says, and Stiles forces himself to nod.

“Yeah, thanks.”

Derek gives him a questioning look, but Coach blows the whistle and they have to separate. 

After practice, Stiles dresses as quickly as he can to avoid anymore unwarranted comments from Ethan or Jackson or whoever else. He bursts out the locker room doors and nearly runs into Scott.

“Scott!” he says, too excited, and Scott gives him a weird look.

“What?” he asks suspiciously.

Stiles shrugs. “Nothing. I just haven’t seen you in a while.” He’s missed Scott, he realizes as they stand there, though Scott doesn’t seem to have missed him if the way he’s frowning at him is any indication. “Where’ve you been?”

“Don’t you mean where have you been?” Scott asks. “I haven’t been anywhere.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says slowly. “About that, I wanted to talk to you. I just want to say that I--”

“Stiles.” Derek emerges from the locker room, hair still wet.

Scott tosses Derek a dark look and hitches his bag on his shoulder. “I don’t want to keep you from your friends,” he says with a slight sneer.

Stiles watches helplessly as Scott walks down the hall and turns the corner.

Beside him, Derek watches him. “Are you okay?”

Stiles sighs. “Fine,” he mutters and trudges the same way as Scott.

*

That other shoe Stiles has been waiting to drop? It comes on a Saturday, some time in the middle of November. For once, the clouds have parted, leaving the skies blue and sunny, almost warm enough not to wear a sweatshirt. Stiles gets a text message at ten in the morning, from Ethan of all people.

_going to the beach. be outside your house in 10._

Is it a joke? Stiles isn’t sure, but a car pulls up in front of his house ten minutes later and Stiles steps onto the porch, still unsure.

“Come on,” Ethan calls impatiently from the car.

Stiles is confused - who goes to the beach in November? Even with the weather this nice, it’s still going to be cold on the beach. It’s always cold.

Climbing in the car, he’s surprised to find Ethan, Aiden, Jackson, Derek, Danny, and Isaac in the SUV - Isaac’s car judging by the fact that Isaac is driving. He slides into the spot between Derek and the wall. he wants to ask what’s going on, but he doesn’t dare in such a small space.

Derek meets his eyes and gives a half shrug. Maybe this wasn’t his idea either.

The beach is an hour away, down a winding road that Stiles generally tries to avoid. They emerge from thick trees on both sides to the ocean looming before them. It looks calm enough today, a deep blueish-gray. Around him, the guys talk about the upcoming match and their odds of winning, but Stiles doesn’t join in. The whole thing feels kind of weird, though he can’t explain why.

They don’t park down by the beach but instead up on a winding cliff that overlooks the ocean. Down below, Stiles can only see churning water when he chances a glance. Someone pulls a cooler out of the back and Stiles is handed a beer. He takes it without question but barely drinks. Instead, he sticks close to Derek, who doesn’t seem to have any qualms about being dragged to the beach.

“You know what would be awesome,” Ethan says as they sit around on the cliff and drink - the only one not drinking much is Isaac, which is somewhat of a relief to Stiles who has had to sit through his dad’s drinking and driving lecture way too many times. “Jumping off the cliff.”

There’s a murmur of agreement, though Stiles thinks it sounds like a suicidal idea.

“Yeah, you’re too chicken to do it, though,” Aiden points out.

“You do it, then, if you’re not chicken,” Ethan says but Aiden scoffs and takes a swig of his beer.

“You’re all full of shit,” Jackson pipes up. “No one here has the balls.”

“Not even you?” Derek says, earning himself a glare from Jackson.

“Not even your little boy toy,” he replies and Stiles frowns.

“I’m not afraid,” Stiles shoots back, although he doesn’t know why he said that. Jumping off a fifty foot high cliff into the ocean is pretty freaking scary.

“Then why don’t you do it?” Jackson says. “Come on, Stiles. Don’t be a loser.”

“Yeah, it’ll be cool,” Ethan says and Aiden nods. 

Stiles hesitates. He glances at the cliff. Maybe he shouldn’t have said anything.

“Are you scared, Stiles?” Jackson asks, tone goading.

“No.” Stiles shakes his head, but his heart say different, fluttering in his chest. “I’ll do it.”

He moves to stand up, but Derek’s hand on his wrist stops him. 

“Stiles, don’t.”

“What?” he asks, pulling away. “I’ll do it.” He’ll prove that he’s not scared and maybe the guys will stop the hazing. “If they’re too scared.”

Ethan and Jackson exchange a look, but they get up and follow Stiles to the edge of the cliff. It seems incredibly precarious from up here, the waves hitting the edge, over and over again. Standing up there, Stiles forces himself to take a deep breath. He can do this. It isn’t like he hasn’t done stupid things like this before.

Shrugging off his sweatshirt, he tosses it behind him, kicks off his shoes, and takes his phone out of his pocket. He places it on his shirt and steps up to the edge.

Behind him, everyone is silent, waiting. Swallowing down the fear rising in his throat, Stiles takes a breath before closing his eyes and jumping.

For a minute, it’s only air surrounding him, a loud rush in his ears, then he hits the water and it’s a new sort of rush, shockingly cold and strong, the current dragging him underneath. He tries to swim upward, but the current pulls him down, and it only takes a second before he starts to panic. 

His arms and legs work as hard as they can, but he gets nowhere. He’s running out of air and for a moment, he’s sure this is the end. He’s going to drown because of a stupid challenge he couldn’t say no to.

His body is cold, too cold, and his arms aren’t going to work much longer as he struggles towards the surface. How could he have thought this was a good idea? He isn’t thinking straight anymore, too panicked, kicking for all his life before he passes out.

An arm wraps around his chest as he sinks in the water and someone bigger and stronger than him hauls him upward. When they finally break the surface, Stiles gasps for air, coughing up water. Derek has a hold of him and tows him to shore where Stiles collapses on his hands and knees, coughing up more water. His whole body shudders from the cold seeped down to his bones.

“Fuck,” he chokes, barely able to breath.

Derek peels off Stiles’ shirt without any protest from Stiles and puts his sweatshirt on Stiles. It’s nice and warm but Stiles still shivers violently. Derek is soaked as well, but he must have spent a lot less time underwater than Stiles did because he doesn’t look nearly as cold. 

“Stiles, are you okay?” he asks as Stiles finally regains the ability to breathe normally.

Stiles can only manage to shake his head. He wonders how Derek managed to save him so quickly. He nearly drowned out there. The other guys appear off a trail leading down from the cliff. Isaac is carrying Stiles’ things, and Derek takes them from him, handing them to Stiles.

“I can’t believe you actually did that,” Ethan says as they reach him. 

“What?” Stiles croaks, shivering again despite Derek forcing him into his own sweatshirt on top of his own. He’s gonna get pneumonia.

“What kind of a loser jumps off a cliff?” Jackson adds, and Stiles almost can’t believe it. He almost just fucking died.

“Guys,” Derek interrupts, rising from the rocky shore. “Shut up.”

“No, Derek,” Jackson says, straightening his back. “You think you’re the leader of the pack but you’re not. Stiles is just a pathetic loser. He can’t even play lacrosse well.”

“And that’s all that matters,” Derek says, rolling his eyes.

On the ground, Stiles pushes himself up on his weakened limbs. The whole world seems to tilt dangerously as he does so and he stumbles a step. It’s finally happening. 

“He’s right,” Stiles says, voice scratchy. “I am.”

He isn’t upset with the way Jackson makes an obvious gesture at his words. It doesn’t even bother him that much when Ethan and Aiden laugh cruelly. What breaks his heart is the way Derek looks at him, torn between confusion and anger.

“I can’t believe you tried to be popular,” Jackson sneers. “You’ll only ever be a loser and you don’t deserve to hang out with us.”

Heart sinking, Stiles knows he’s right, but not because he wants to be popular anymore.

“You’re right, Jackson. I don’t want to hang out with you because you guys are all self-centered jackasses who wouldn’t know what actual friendship was if it bit you in the ass. I’d rather be a pathetic dork. At least I’d know who my real friends were.”

He squishes on his shoes and tightens his grip on his phone. The worst thing about it is that Derek will agree with the team. These are Derek’s friends. 

“I don’t know why I tried,” Stiles says, struggling up the small incline of the hill. “I should have never wanted to be popular, but I didn’t know it meant selling my soul. Guess I do now.”

“You’re a fucking loser,” Jackson calls after him as Stiles heads for the road.

Stiles doesn’t turn back, though, and he doesn’t look at Derek, searching through his phone for the right number. It’s not going to be easy to explain, but he hits the call button and waits for someone to pick up.

“Hey,” he says when it’s answered. “I need your help.”

*

Stiles presses his hands to the heater. His jeans are soaked, but Scott hadn’t said anything when he climbed in his mom’s car. Stiles knows Scott wants to ask. He can see the way his eyes keep darting his way.

“Thanks,” Stiles mutters after a few minutes as they drive down the winding highway. “For coming.”

Scott makes a vague noise which Stiles takes as a ‘you’re welcome.’ “What the hell happened?” he asks finally. “Why are you soaking wet and why did you say you almost died on the phone?”

Stiles sighs. “I almost just drowned.”

“What the fuck?” Scott demands. “What does that mean?”

“It means I’m sorry,” Stiles says, the words falling gracelessly out of his mouth. “I’ve been such an asshole this year and you were so right to be mad. I just, like, abandoned you all to be cool, which is such a ridiculous concept. Popular people suck, by the way.”

“I could have told you that.”

“You probably did,” Stiles agrees. “But I was so headstrong and stupid. Why didn’t I just listen? Now I don’t have any friends left. You’re the only person who’s ever actually been my friend and I pushed you away. How can you even stand me? I can’t believe you actually came to pick me up after what I did.”

Scott is silent for a moment, the only sound the hum of the road and the radio playing on low. 

“We’ve been friends ever since kindergarten,” Scott says after a long minute. “You’re my best friend, and even when you get stupid, which is a lot lately, you’re still my best friend.”

“Scott, I’m such an idiot,” Stiles says, leaning over and grabbing Scott into a hug. Scott jumps and the car swerves.

“Dude, you’re soaked!”

“Sorry.” Stiles moves back. “Just, I’m really glad you don’t hate me.”

Scott rolls his eyes. “I don’t hate you. I never did.”

“Good.” It feels like a weight has been lifted off his shoulders. He has missed Scott so much.

“So things are gonna be back to normal?” Scott asks, taking a sharp curve in the road. 

“I hope so,” Stiles says, though as he does, he thinks about Derek and his heart sinks. That’s the end of that, he thinks sadly. There’s no way Derek will want to be with him after that. As he sits there, he realizes that he’s still wearing Derek’s sweatshirt.

Sinking into his seat, he pulls the shirt closer to him and inhales deeply. It’s his last reminder of being popular. His last remnant of popularity. His last bit of Derek.

*

Stiles is actually glad he doesn’t have to sit with the lacrosse team at lunch. For the first time in months, he doesn’t feel uncomfortable, and he laughs at Scott’s impression of Mr. Mallon. The only momentary twinge of pain comes when he catches sight of Derek crossing the cafeteria. Derek doesn’t look at him, though.

“Dude,” Scott says when he catches Stiles watching. “Just forget about him. He’s a stupid jock.”

Stiles wants to say that Derek isn’t like the rest of them but Scott won’t believe him. Stiles isn’t sure he even believes it either anymore. He still hasn’t returned Derek’s sweatshirt and he doesn’t know if he’ll ever work up the nerve to do it.

“It just sucks,” Stiles says, turning back to his lunch. He’s not really hungry anymore. 

“Why? It’s just Derek. So you made out a couple times, big deal.”

Stiles hesitates, but he could never hide anything from Scott, who gasps after a second.

“Oh my God,” he says then hushes his voice. “You totally boned, didn’t you? Stiles, what the hell?”

“What?” Stiles whines. “He’s hot and smart, and nice. And too cool for me.”

“Fuck that,” Scott scoffs, much to Stiles’ surprise. “You are so much cooler than those asswipe lacrosse players. They’ve been hit in the head so many times, they’ve lost half their braincells. What the fuck do they know?”

Stiles finds himself grinning stupidly as Scott finishes.

“What?” Scott asks at Stiles’ smile.

“I missed you,” is all he says and Scott rolls his eyes.

It’s nice to have Scott back, but it still doesn’t make up for the sadness he feels when his eyes fall on Derek at the other table. He should have just told him the truth from the beginning, but it’s too late now. He’s betrayed Derek’s trust, lied to him for months, and now he’s paying the price.

After a minute, he forces him to stop staring at Derek and pay attention to what Scott is saying about his college applications.

“I applied to UCLA and Berkeley,” Scott says, “but I was thinking maybe University of Arizona too. Where are you thinking of?”

“Honestly, I have no idea.” Stiles sighs. “College is too hard to think about.”

“You gotta apply,” Scott says. “Just pick a couple and if you hate it, you can always transfer.”

He says it like it’s so easy. Stiles really doesn’t know what he wants to do. College is so far away and why does he have to choose now? What if he decides he wants to travel for a year? 

“I know,” Stiles says. “I’ll probably just do normal schools. UCLA, USC, Berkeley, I don’t know. Maybe San Diego.”

“Better decide soon. Apps are due in December.”

Stiles knows. He has all the applications, but he has yet to fill one out. He will. Eventually.

*

Lydia taps Stiles on the shoulder with her pen and he turns. She glances at the teacher at the front and then whispers.

“I hear there was a bit of a falling out. You’re no longer on the team?”

Stiles has no idea about actually being on the team, but he hasn’t gone to practice all week. Somehow, he doubts any of them would appreciate him coming.

“Me and popularity didn’t seem to mix well,” he says instead. “They’re all huge jerks.”

Lydia nods slightly. “It’s often the case, although, not all the time.”

“If you’re talking about Derek, he’s still popular and I am still not.” He sighs. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“You had a crush. It’s okay.”

“I changed everything about myself just so I could hang out with guys who only ever talk about lacrosse. I pushed away my best friend for months. I hooked up with a guy who used me and then dumped me. Then I got with Derek and lied to him about everything. And now I am back to being a video game-playing, non-working-out loser with only one friend.”

“Excuse you,” Lydia says, sounding offended. “What am I? Chopped liver?”

“Huh?”

“I’m not your friend?” she asks. “I spent months training you to be the best asshole you could be and you reward me by not including me as your friend? Without me, you never would have learned any of this!”

Stiles stares at her for a moment as it sinks in. Lydia is totally his friend, even if he hadn’t realized this. Who else would do something like that for him?

“Wow, I’m so dumb,” he says, and Lydia, despite herself, rolls her eyes.

“You’re not dumb, Stiles. You just don’t always see outside your initial field of vision.”

“What does that mean?”

“You need to look at the big picture.”

“What’s the big picture?”

Lydia smiles slightly. “That even though you’re not popular, you still have friends and that’s really all that matters in high school.”

Stiles’ eyebrows furrow. “You knew this before, didn’t you?”

She shrugs. “I figured the only way for you to learn was hands-on.”

“Thanks,” he says, but he knows she’s right. He wouldn’t have listened if she had told him this back in June. 

“You’re welcome,” she says just as the teacher says, “Ms. Martin!”

Lydia smiles apologetically and sits back. Stiles turns to the front and smiles down at his textbook.

*

Two weeks go by and Stiles has to return Derek’s sweatshirt. So far, he’s avoided everyone from the team but he can’t just keep Derek’s clothes, as much as he would like to. So he brings it to school on Friday and keeps it in his bag, hoping he’ll run into Derek in between classes where it won’t be weird and awkward. He doesn’t, though. He doesn’t see Derek all day, and that means he has to go looking for him after school. His first thought is the lacrosse field but there’s no practice today, so Stiles checks the parking lot. Derek’s car is still there.

He’ll just wait by the car, he decides. Derek will have to come there sooner or later.

It’s later when Derek does finally come to his car. Stiles is trying and failing to read the book assigned for English. Mostly, he’s sitting uncomfortably on pavement, but he scrambles up as he catches sight of Derek.

Derek looks confused to find Stiles at his car. 

“Stiles?” he asks. “What are you doing?”

“I just—” Stiles digs in his bag for the sweatshirt. “I just came to give you this back. I washed it.”

He holds it out but Derek doesn’t take it, frowning slightly at Stiles. This is the uncomfortable part Stiles was worried about. 

“Take it. Please,” Stiles says, pressing it against Derek, and he finally reaches up. That’s all Stiles came to do, so he kicks the ground and turns.

“Stiles,” Derek says, stopping him.

Stiles looks back. “Yeah?”

“What the hell are you doing?”

Surprised, Stiles turns back. “Just giving you back your sweatshirt.”

“Why did you stop talking to me?”

Stiles stares. “Aren’t you mad at me?”

“Why?” Derek asks, shaking his head. 

“Because I lied to you,” Stiles says. He can’t believe that Derek isn’t furious. “I pretended to be cool when I’m really just a loser.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Derek says, louder than Stiles expects. “You’re not a loser.” It’s more emotion than Stiles has seen Derek have and it confuses him. “You’re funny and cute and you talk too much.”

“I know,” Stiles agrees. “That’s exactly why I’ll never be popular, but I decided that I don’t care. My life was better when I was a no one and nobody knew who I was.”

“Mine wasn’t,” Derek says with a frown. “Stiles, I’m not gonna dump you because of what the team thinks. If you think we should stop hanging out because you actually don’t want to hang out, then we won’t. Otherwise, I just want you to know that I don’t fucking care what anyone thinks.”

It’s too much to hope for, but Stiles does anyway as he stares at Derek. Could it be possible that Derek doesn’t hate him? That it could somehow work out in his favor? The universe has never exactly been on his side, but maybe it could make an exception. 

“What does that mean?” Stiles asks hopefully. 

Derek sighs and steps closer. His sweatshirt is bunched in his hand. “It means you better start talking to me again. I kind of miss the incessant chatter.”

Stiles’ face splits into a grin and his heart flutters ridiculously. “Really?”

“Really,” Derek says, stepping into Stiles’ space.

Stiles is sure he’s going to wake up in a few minutes, but he doesn’t care if this is a dream or not. He kisses Derek first this time, smiling against his mouth when Derek kisses him back, warm and easy and comfortable. Derek’s hands come to rest on his lower back as Stiles moves back.

“I’m not a loser?”

“You never were,” Derek says. Stiles’ stomach flutters.

“So,” he says, trailing his fingers along Derek’s jaw. “Where are you going to college?”

Derek pauses. “I have no idea.”

Stiles grins. “Me neither.”

*

FIN.


End file.
